A Moment
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Fifteen: As the hour before a mission draws near – our musketeers share a moment of love, allegiance and brotherhood.
1. Chapter 1

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away.

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Chapter One: One Day

d'Artagnan stood amongst the fifteen or so others, in the tight ring of musketeer recruits and was struck dumb with awe. Everyone stood shoulder to shoulder; breathing in each other's space – leaning forward to watch the lesson for the day. This is what they had all been waiting for – to see the master swordsman at work.

He held his breath; and strained to keep the joy from his face as he watched Athos spar within the circle. He was beautiful – fluid – almost dancing; Renard no match for his genius. He bent his wrist to copy a move – itching to give it a try; but stilled his hand with great effort – not wanting to take his eyes away from the demonstration for even a second.

He spoke sternly to himself; and made sure then to not move a muscle – to be as still as possible – so as not to be the one to interrupt the absolute poetry he was witness to this day.

He watched mesmerized as Athos spun; turned; and twisted his body at angles he could only dream of. The others murmured in appreciation – but he could not let his breath go; holding it still as if releasing it would break the magic spell in front of him.

His heart pounded so hard in his chest, that to his ears – it sounded like thunder; and he thought for sure the others standing near him would turn and admonish him for disturbing the match with such noise.

He bit his lip; and dared not blink. To close his eyes for a moment would mean he might miss something – something important; something magnificent. His hands sweat as if he were the one on display instead of the master at hand.

And a master he was. How lucky he was to be here at this moment in time – to be here among the many who dreamed of becoming a musketeer. To have this opportunity to watch a legend in the making – to see the great Athos at work; he counted himself blessed.

d'Artagnan furrowed his brow to help him concentrate – to count; to weigh each step – to understand each move; each counter move; and to comprehend the why of each tactic. He pressed his lips tight. Everything Athos put forth appeared so effortless; in sync and unhurried – his sword always one step ahead of his opponent's.

What he would give to wield a sword such as this. He closed his hands into fists with eager anticipation and watched as Athos languidly turned and deflected a furious attack on Renard's part without ever changing his expression – his demeanor, cool and non-pulsed; his eyes alight with respect for the surprise move.

Everyone hissed out a relieved breath; leaned in tighter to compress the circle and learned in that instant what recovery looked like. Athos shouted out over the clanging of their swords, "See there?" and fifteen heads bobbed up and down in understanding.

d'Artagnan moved his feet to find that stance – to remember that moment and then followed the circle as it shifted with the two within – dust swirling around their feet; rising to a fine mist into the air. He heard someone sneeze and the circle of men laughed lightly.

And then suddenly the dance was over. The two men saluted one another – Renard smiling; his face sweaty with exertion – openly happy he had survived the demonstration without being humiliated. Athos shook Renard's hand and above the applause d'Artagnan heard him say with sincerity, "well done".

The circle dispersed – excited young men pairing off into small groups – exclaiming over what greatness looked like – some pounding Renard on the back with approval; laughing loudly and moving on to the rest of their day.

The dust settled in the yard; and as their voices drifted away, d'Artagnan stood still in that place – reliving the sparring match from beginning to end in his mind; closing his eyes and blocking out all sound to recapture what he had seen.

One day, that would be him in the circle. One day Athos would look to him and say "well done". All he had to do was remember it all – soak it in – practice; give it everything he had; and not forget.

One day – Athos would look at him with respect for his abilities. But first he had to learn. Learn everything the musketeer had to offer.

He frowned a little at his own timidity. So far, he had not yet built up the courage to ask for pointers; to request a private training session; but instead had taken to watching and listening. The only time he had matched swords with Athos had been during their first encounter; and embarrassment had kept him from seeking out more.

d'Artagnan came to himself, took in a shuddered breath; opened his eyes and found that he still stood in the garrison yard – now alone. He looked around sheepishly and hoped no one had noticed how lost he had become in branding the match in his brain; locking the moves away in his memory – so that he would not forget; and pull them up when needed.

It was a trick his father had taught him – to take note; visualize and remember.

He moved swiftly to the stables and casually strode through to see if anyone was about – and when the coast seemed clear – pulled his sword from its sheath and began.

He closed his eyes and started from the beginning – pretending Renard stood across from him and he was the great master – Athos.

As he progressed through each motion – he knew he was a poor imitation. His feet stumbled over intricate moves; he lost his balance when anticipating a spin and found it difficult to keep up with the tempo of parry – lunge and deflect.

But he continued through, and at the end sheathed his sword, and vowed to start again. Practice made perfect – right?

Because one day – one day – he would have worked hard enough to be a true musketeer – to have Athos say to him….

"You memorized the entire match." Athos said from the shadows – his eyes keen and narrowed slightly.

d'Artagnan turned slowly with unease, and there facing him was the man he so much wanted to emulate. How much had he seen? How clumsy he must have seemed? What must he think?

His mouth went dry; his palms sweaty and his heart beat fast. All he could do was nod in assent to the man in front of him – words lost in the storm of his thoughts whirling about his head.

Horses stomped and neighed around them; as together they studied each other with open curiosity. d'Artagnan shuffled his feat – nervous energy coursing through his body – ready to flee; his face flushed red under such steely scrutiny. He wished Athos would go or let him pass.

Athos looked over the slight young man before him. He had never met someone who would go to such lengths as to memorize a sparring session. Here was determination personified. After several moments of watching the boy shuffle nervously from foot to foot – ready to bolt no doubt – he broke the silence and commanded, "Let me see again."

d'Artagnan hesitated, lifted his eyebrows in question; and watched as Athos folded his arms and took a seat on a bale of hay.

So, he took a deep, controlled breath; nodded once in assent – unsheathed his sword and closed his eyes. This was his chance, he thought. This was his chance to show what he could do – to learn something from a master. He rolled his shoulders; popped his neck to the side; and pulled up the match in his mind and danced through the routine – the invisible Renard keeping pace.

Athos was amazed. He could see his moves there amidst the raw talent; and remembered that day in the yard this boy had come to challenge him.

He considered d'Artagnan as he came to a close; sheathed his sword and opened his eyes. And there, he saw within those depths the desire to be the best; to one day match his sword with his own.

d'Artagnan shuffled his feet again; and felt his ears burn red. Why must Athos look at him so? It unnerved him. He could not tell what the man was thinking?

Athos stood to his feet; looked to the ground – and made a decision. "I see you are more than willing", he announced. "Come – today we begin."

Athos turned away and walked with purpose out of the stables and into the yard.

d'Artagnan stood rooted for only the briefest of moments - stunned. He had not expected this. Perhaps this was his "one day". He would not let the moment pass. So he gripped the hilt of his sword at his side, and ran to follow.

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Recently someone asked me – what is it you would like to read? I thought, just moments; snatches of time where our musketeers are just brothers. So here is my attempt. I hope you like it. Please leave a review and let me know what you think.

Thank you so much to riversidewren for asking the question.


	2. Chapter 2

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter two: d'Artagnan walks with a friend.

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Chapter Two: A Walk

d'Artagnan walked a steady pace beside his friend and kept up easily enough without thinking about it too much. Of course the streets of Paris were crowded this time of day. Vendors called out to people passing by, to take proper heed and notice of their unique; once in a life time, special wares.

Their many voices intertwined; hung in the air and drifted by him unnoticed. The sing song quality of their direct guarantee of promised goods floated away with the slight breeze onto the next street; their merchandise of little interest – his thoughts cresting above the noise.

d'Artagnan peered up to the clear sky; lifted his hand to shield his eyes and noted that the sun was pretty high, and soon the noon day heat would send many scurrying to find shade or water to wipe their brows and cool off from the stifling heat.

He pulled absently at his tunic and let the air flow down between the many fabrics he wore to chill his hot skin. The closely packed bodies here on the sidewalk did little to help circulate the gentle gusts navigating between tight, side by side buildings.

Loud laughter and running feet of carefree children swept by them and d'Artagnan dodged their playful antics without even really seeing them. Only their evident happiness at being allowed to roam free without parental escort seemed to penetrate the daze he found himself in.

Yes – the children's happiness was evident.

He blinked and caught quick glimpses of their wide smiles – bright eyes and flushed cheeks. They openly laughed with such abandon that he stopped in his tracks for a moment and looked carefully at their joy. He creased his brow and felt his friend stop alongside him – patiently waiting to move on.

He observed that friend now curiously, and wondered what he saw in his face at this moment. Was it flushed? Did he sport a smile of unabashed good fortune? Were his eyes bright with wonder?

His friend lifted an eyebrow and caressed his beard in thought.

d'Artagnan took a deep, sighing breath and continued to walk on; his friend a constant, unchanging shadow at his side.

If so – then not only he, but all could possibly read his signs; for he was indeed a happy man - maybe a distracted one - but happy all the same.

Rounding the corner toward the garrison – he thought back on this morning and how the day began with the sweet sound of singing; the smell of bacon; freshly baked bread and a radiant smile.

He thought on how he could lay lazy and snug in his rented room and soft feathered bed all day, if it meant he would be graced with the sound of her dulcet tunes.

d'Artagnan stopped again, considered the ground and shrugged his shoulders – perhaps not so dulcet. It did not matter that she could not carry a tune, or remember all the words to the melody. Her early morning songs; hums; and improvisations soothed his soul regardless.

He felt the warmth of his friend beside him still – halted with him here in the street – his hand at the hilt of his sword; resting their lightly and who now, quietly gazed at him with some amusement.

d'Artagnan blushed with embarrassment as the throng of Parisians, horses; and carts swerved around the obstruction in the thoroughfare – which was he and his friend – their irritation tempered by the fleur-de- lis at the arm of one, along with his uncompromising glare; and the sword at his hip.

He frowned in confusion at finding himself in the middle of the road; and wondered vaguely where they were. Was it possible that they were lost?

He quickened his pace to find the sidewalk once again; and wished the garrison were somehow closer.

His friend laughed softly, as not to offend – grabbed him from the back; gripped his shoulders firmly – pointed him east; and suddenly the street focused into that familiar stretch he walked daily from the Bonacieux home.

He shook his head; but for some reason, the cobwebs remained, and with great trust that he would not be led astray – let his friend guide him on safely over broken bits of cobble; left behind manure; and pass by unscathed through contents of chamber pots, let loose from overhead windows.

And as he was led through the obstacle course of everyday life here in Paris – all he could think of was her. The flow of her wavy auburn hair; and the way it curled at her forehead as she hung the laundry to dry. He thought of her smile and how it always reached her eyes when she laughed at his tales of the day's events behind garrison walls. He gazed down at his empty hand and remembered the feel of hers in his, when he spoke somberly of his father and what it meant to leave Lupiac behind.

He thought of the pensive looks she gave him, when he spoke of his dreams of becoming a musketeer; and how lucky he was to be mentored under such great men as the inseparables. And most of all, he cherished the memory of her lips and how sweet and warm they were that very first day he met her; when she captured his heart and mesmerized him.

When they reached the garrison gate and stepped over the threshold into the yard, d'Artagnan looked around a little disappointed.

The sun was not so bright here; the noise – not so full of life and laughter. And though he could smell bread baking from Serge's kitchens that wafted out into the air – it did not smell as fresh.

He knit his brow a little and looked back out to the street; and further back in his mind's eye to his rented room; the cozy kitchen and Constance singing as she went about her daily routines.

Athos gazed over at his friend and squeezed his shoulder. "What say you then d'Artagnan?' he asked in all seriousness.

d'Artagnan sighed heavily; squinted up to his friend; and thought deeply on this question. After a few moments of silent contemplation he answered with care.

"I say she is married."

Athos bowed his head and meticulously adjusted his hat. "Yes – she is married." he concurred – lifting his gaze to study his young friend.

d'Artagnan shifted his feet; and stood tall beneath the scrutiny. "I say – I don't wish to cause her any grief."

Athos pressed his lips tight; and with reassurance – cupped his neck fondly. "Then – a gentleman it is.", he said decisively and drew him in briefly.

d'Artagnan nodded in agreement. And as Athos let him loose with a final squeeze to his neck and walked away – he looked wistfully back into the bustling street beyond the gate – turned away with some regret and followed his friend in search of the others.

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Thank you for reading this brief moment. I hope you enjoyed. Please review and let me know what you think. I also want to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who has read; reviewed; favorited; and followed this story. I was happily overwhelmed by your responses to "One Day". You have no idea, how much it means to see your positive reviews and comments. Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter three: d'Artagnan dines and anticipates his friend's return.

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Chapter Three: The Door

d'Artagnan sat reticent in the noisy dining hall, among a throng of hungry, boisterous musketeers and equally so recruits. From the vantage point of his seat, he stared absently out of the open door; and let his thoughts wander beyond the room – past the yard; through the garrison gates – out into the busy streets and then some distance away from Paris.

He frowned and thought of what dangers lurked away from this place - versus the security and protection he found himself insulated in.

And though his thoughts verged on the edge of melancholia – he slowly, pulled them back from the brink and came to himself; the noise of the room waking him as if from some faraway dream. There beyond the door's threshold he could just make out the dusty yard; hear the sharp clangs of metal clash; the distant retorts of gunfire; and the voices of men not yet inclined to join those inside, ready for the evening meal.

Holding tightly to his cup of wine, he noticed the sun hanging low and knew that soon sunset would dim the yard to dusk. Lanterns would be lit to help welcome home those musketeers not yet returned to the garrison from some duty, or other missive commanded by their Captain.

d'Artagnan scanned the hall; and though the atmosphere was jovial; somewhat light hearted, and many ate Serge's meal hardily; he found that he had no real appetite for food. He gazed thoughtfully down at the cup of wine in his hand; took a sip and felt its warmth relax the anxiety in his muscles.

He sat amongst his friends – who had deemed it necessary to drag him here; and watched them with fondness as they piled their plates high; filled their bowls with hot stew and spoke with their mouths full - of events of the day; the women most pressing on their minds; and what chances they had at gaining their commissions.

He smiled amiably with them; sat silently with nothing to add to the conversation; drank his cup of wine and looked again to the door. Today their words had no meaning; and it seemed they spoke a foreign language to him. Usually he was happy in their company – but lately he could not think clearly; eat properly or sleep well.

So there the door stood wide open, waiting it seemed for him to exit.

He wasn't hungry; he couldn't concentrate; he was awful company and should go. And just as he was about to rise and excuse himself – why stay if he wasn't going to eat – Serge appeared at his shoulder with a bowl that steamed with rising heat. He placed it down with some strength of purpose in front of him – a stern look of disapproval across his face to match.

d'Artagnan startled aware; caught his friends snickering and was reminded of that very morning when Serge appeared out of nowhere, to place a bowl of porridge and plate of bread down in front of him for breakfast. Then, they had laughed and accused him of having his "mother" about to be sure he was fed and looked after.

He had not thought their banter particularly funny; frowned with annoyance up at Serge – who ignored him completely, and stood at his side to be sure he partook of the meal and finished it whole.

And once again, Serge stood beside him now – hands on his hips; lips tight with determination; and his eyebrows raised in a question – letting d'Artagnan know in uncertain terms that his will was just as strong as his.

d'Artagnan peered up at him; his ears burning red – lifted the spoon to his mouth and took a bite of the stew – his eyes pleading for Serge to leave his side. He did not want a repeat of this morning's teasing and grousing at his expense.

Serge huffed a response - wiped his hands down the front of his apron and walked away painfully on arthritic knees to help dole out portions to those eagerly awaiting in line with bowls outstretched; shoulders touching and pushing against each other lightly – complaining about who was first to be served.

d'Artagnan heaved a sigh of relief and scowled at Etienne and Cyprian as they chuckled under their breaths. "Mamma's boy" – he could hear clearly behind their good natured smiles.

He rolled his eyes their way – chewed the tasteless stew slowly and let his gaze wander again to the open door. And there, he could see the purple, orange hue of the sky and wished he had made his escape sooner – for now he could feel Serge's ever present gaze boring into him – watching is every move.

So, he continued to chew the meal, which felt like sawdust in his mouth; and stuck like straw in his throat. He tried to swallow without choking and garnishing too much attention.

Finally, with much effort, he was able to get the mouthful of stew halfway down his throat by gulping a swig of wine to push it pass his Adam's apple. When it reached his stomach, the food felt like bricks weighted there and gave him a queasy, sick sensation.

He swiped his mouth and would have gagged; if he did not know that Serge was watching. And for sure, when he looked up in his direction – Serge was making a motion for him to take another spoonful.

So he sighed in defeat; smiled half-heartedly and took another bite – hoping his grimace was masked by his hand, he now leaned against to hide his face.

For a full week now, Serge had made it his business to see his plate clean. Why had he decided to single him out, he wondered? Had he unknowingly offended the man's food in some way – giving him reason to hover and insist he eat every morsel placed before him?

He looked again to the door, where now several recruits and musketeers entered – calling out to comrades seated; complaining about the heat, or dragging themselves in – tired and weary – long days and hard riding common place among them.

He turned from the door; wondered at his disappointment; and studied his meal with distaste.

Usually he enjoyed Serge's stew; but today the bland meat and slushy potatoes held no interest. He took his spoon and stirred it aimlessly around in circles and watched as it meshed together in an unappetizing mess. He meticulously chewed the cooling meat in his mouth – and hoped that if he chewed long enough, Serge would stop looking in his direction.

This time when his gaze fell to the door, there stood the inseparables – they filled the doorway – their presence larger than life to him; their clothes dusty from travel; their faces worn and dirty with grime - looking his way.

He sat straight up and welcomed them with a wide grin that showed his teeth; hurt his cheeks; and brightened his eyes.

Porthos and Aramis smiled wide right back at him; their eyes crinkling in amusement as they strode toward his table. Athos nodded in his direction and made his way pass – intent on speaking to Serge it seemed, as d'Artagnan followed his path to the chow line.

Etienne and Cyprian looked up from their meals and took this as a cue to stand; and find another table – for the three most respected musketeers in the regiment were headed their way; and they were headed to see d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan felt his fellow recruits leave the table and watched with anticipation as Porthos and Aramis took their seats, insisting vociferously that the young men stay and finish their meals; but they shook their heads in awe and moved along to give them space – promising themselves to seek d'Artagnan out on the morrow and get all the scoop.

Suddenly the stew which sat in his mouth took on a magnificent flavor. The spices were perfect, the meat was tender and the potatoes melted in his mouth. He felt his stomach growl and took in another spoonful – now unexpectedly ravenous.

His friends laughed; removed their hats; and leaned heavily against the small table. They engulfed the space around them, and d'Artagnan felt small in their presence as they rubbed their stiff necks and red rimmed eyes.

"I see you are well my friend", Aramis exclaimed – and pierced him with a careful look.

"As are you", d'Artagnan beamed and spoke around a mouthful of the most delicious stew he had ever tasted.

"Yes – well; but extremely dirty", Porthos interjected – slapping the arms of his coat and watched as the dust exploded in puffs around him.

Aramis waved the flying particles from his face and pointed down at d'Artagnan's meal as he took yet another mouthful. "I see Athos needn't to have worried so about your appetite", he laughed with merriment.

d'Artagnan frowned down into his bowl and gradually realized the resurgence of his appetite in correlation with the return of his friends. When he gazed toward the chow line and Serge – there stood Athos in a conspirator's stance with the cook and suddenly he understood.

Aramis stood then to his feet; and gripped his shoulder. "It is good to see you d'Artagnan", he spoke with sincerity; his eyes softening as he looked then to his brother Athos with Serge at his side. "We worried for you", he continued as he reached for his hat and planted it back on his head. "But now" he sighed deeply, "a warm bath is calling for me; and these clothes – I can't stand for another moment."

Porthos stood then also – and gazed fondly down at him, "I agree", he mocked – pinching his nose and swaying his hand playfully before his face.

d'Artagnan laughed with them and finished his last bite – happy to have his friends home again. He had missed them terribly.

"We'll see you in a bit", Porthos groaned – his knees and back popping as he stretched his arms over his head. And together the two wearily made their way from the hall and through the open door.

d'Artagnan watched them go, the lanterns aglow now in the yard – illuminating the dusky evening. He reached for the warm bread on the table; tore off a good sized hunk and devoured it – his appetite now good and hardy.

When he looked up again, Athos stood at his side; his hat in his hands – cool, green eyes watching him intently. d'Artagnan felt uneasy under his gaze and his mouth went dry. He grabbed for his cup of wine and took a sip. Athos sat and leaned in across the table over into his personal space; and spoke in a quiet, even tone, "Serge reports that for the past week you have pushed his food aside and found it lacking."

The wine took a wrong turn, burned his throat and made his eyes water. d'Artagnan coughed and then answered genuinely, "He has seen to it that I have eaten well enough."

Athos scrutinized the empty bowl and then d'Artagnan's earnest expression and seemed satisfied with his observations. He sat relaxed and comfortable with his young friend for some moments; raked a hand through his hair- and thought to himself, how long the week had been. He took in an exhausted breath; nodded once and pushed himself to his feet. "Well enough then" – he repeated; and turned to leave the table.

d'Artagnan considered his friend with some disappointment as he walked away; but then Athos hesitated; and added, "I go now to report the specifics of our mission."

d'Artagnan stood swiftly to his feet – food now all but forgotten. "I'll go with you", he voiced with excitement – glad that Athos would want his company. "Just give me a moment."

Athos turned and watched as d'Artagnan gathered up his empty bowl and cup; made his way to Serge's side and handed them over with a wary and shy like smile.

Serge glowered at his contrition without heat; gently slapped his cheek with affection – then pushed him firmly toward Athos – who waited at the door to walk with his friend out into the evening.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this moment. Please review and let me know what you think. Your comments keep me going and fuel me with energy! Also thank you again to everyone who has read; followed and favorited these brief moments in time. It means a lot!


	4. Chapter 4

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Four: d'Artagnan receives his commission.

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Chapter Four: The Pauldron

The walk back to the garrison, away from the field of competition was surreal for d'Artagnan. The knowing that his dream had been successfully fulfilled – confused him on so many levels; and left him wanting to ask anyone who would answer "Is it true?"

He touched the stiff new leather at his shoulder and in lieu of pinching himself – squeezed the pauldron tight and beneath it, could feel the pressure of his grip.

The congratulatory comments, pats on the back and looks of good will – swept over his head and were hard to comprehend. He shook his head in disbelief and thought – soon he would wake up from this perfect dream and Constance would call out to him for breakfast – admonishing him for sleeping late; and missing muster.

For many a dream he had like this – only to be awakened from sleep and find himself disappointed.

But when he looked up, the gray sky greeted him and the clouds let loose a sprinkle of cool rain that had him gasping in surprise. He blinked at its wetness and knew now– he was awake already.

He then studied his hands closely and thought – though not asleep – somehow, he was no longer himself. Everything seemed different; looked different – sharper; more in focus.

The drizzle of rain that fell around him – descended in slow motion and he held out his hands to catch the tiny specks of droplets; and wondered at their sting as they splashed and dispersed lightly in his palms.

If this was not a dream – then what was it? Why did he feel so strange – so unbelievably, wonderfully strange?

He lifted his face to the heavens and let the faint mist of it wet his hair – his cheeks and soak his clothes.

Adrienne, Etienne, and Cyprian laughed at his open display of wonder. They touched his new pauldron for luck at his shoulder and raced past him to find shelter from the unexpected shower within the garrison walls.

When he did not follow, they turned to yell back at him in fondness, "Find shelter musketeer – before you catch cold!" and disappeared to find their rooms – or some other place to find warmth and wait out the rain in a dry place.

A musketeer - that's who he was now. He gazed down at his shoulder and stared with wonderment.

Now soaked through, he shivered slightly – as droplets of rain traveled down his neck, under his shirt and tickled his spine. He continued on his way – eager to make it "home".

But once inside the garrison gates, he wasn't so sure what to do. Athos had peeled away from his side some time ago with the Captain in tow to make sure he tended to his injury. Porthos and Aramis – after heartfelt hugs and congratulations had stayed behind at the competition site to help dismantle tents, barriers; and to say good bye to Lady Alice, the "one who got away".

Now he stood somewhat alone – inside the gates of his new home, and didn't know where to go.

He heard the bray of horses ahead and made his way to the stables – as good a place as any to get out of the rain; and think on his achievement.

As he crossed the threshold into dryness; he shook the rain from his hair; sat heavily on a bale of hay and gazed out of the wide open space of the stables. The drizzle which had caught him by surprise quickly segued into fat raindrops – mixed with the dry dirt; and suddenly transformed into muddy puddles.

How quickly things changed, he thought; and touched his adorned shoulder lightly. Rain now pelted steadily on the roof; horses shifted about in their stalls; and Jacque materialized at his side waiting for instructions.

d'Artagnan blinked and smiled at the boy – who just yesterday had turned up his nose – when asked to rub down his mount; complaining he had enough work to do without recruits also requesting his services.

Jacque now waited patiently; his eyebrows reaching up into his hairline; and to his unasked question, d'Artagnan replied, "No, I don't need anything Jacque. You don't mind if I sit here for a while, do you?"

Jacque frowned slightly and took obvious note of the fleur-de-lis at d'Artagnan's shoulder, "No sir – as you please", and took off into the rain to complete some chore or other missive.

d'Artagnan snorted as he watched Jacque go. Sir, it is now – he chuckled to himself; and looked down at his shoulder to get a better look at his pauldron. He extended his arm to shift the weight and slowly removed his now prized possession to study it more closely.

He placed it in is lap; looked down on it and caressed the fleur-de-lis with pride. He had done it; come into his own – overcome his volcanic temper and by King Louis' decree, joined the brotherhood of the musketeers.

He lifted it up and touched the ridges of the symbol there – remembering the look on Athos' face as he placed this essential piece of his uniform on his shoulder. That expression warmed him now and he smiled at the memory.

Testing its weight now – he had not realized how heavy the pauldron would be. d'Artagnan shifted the leather in his hands and knew he would have to compensate for the added weight when using the sword – shooting his firearm and fighting hand to hand.

Everything he had been taught; learned, to become a musketeer – would now have to be tweaked to adjust to this new addition.

He pushed his wet hair from his face and looked out into the yard, as Athos then stepped in from the rain. d'Artagnan watched silently as he pulled off his hat; shook the water from it – searched him out and moved to sit beside him on the bale of hay.

They sat this way for several moments – quiet, wet – but content to sit without conversation; the pelting rain and shifting hooves enough discord to fill the silent space.

"I feel different", d'Artagnan stated in a hushed tone; his head bowed and hand resting atop the pauldron on his lap.

Athos nodded in understanding. "Yes", he agreed, remembering his own day of commission and how he had expressed almost the exact same words to Aramis and Porthos.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be." d'Artagnan sighed and held it up as if for inspection.

Athos bowed his own head; concurred; and felt the heaviness of his own pauldron – and the added responsibility and fear for d'Artagnan, now forever entrenched in a soldier's life.

"I'll need to adjust for its weight", he continued; his brow furrowed as he hefted it from one hand to another.

Athos touched his own fleur-de-lis solemnly. Yes, the weight was considerable – and sometimes it was hard to lift it from his body – but the oath that kept it there gave him purpose; brotherhood and family.

"Will you help me?" d'Artagnan asked, unsure of Athos' reaction to his request. After all – he was no longer a recruit; and the time for tutoring was perhaps over.

Athos considered d'Artagnan's profile – his wet hair causing rivulets of water to drip along the sides of his face. He removed his scarf from around his neck and handed it over to him.

d'Artagnan took it from his grasp without hesitation – swiped the dampness from his hair; and face – then from his pauldron – almost giving it a glowing shine; the leather now more dry than he.

d'Artagnan smiled self-consciously at him and returned the now drenched scarf with a shrug. Athos genuinely laughed – his eyes crinkled with mirth as he wrung out the excess water with good humor, and without complaint.

He looked around the stable now and remembered that day, many months ago, when he had decided in this very place to make it his mission to help d'Artagnan become a musketeer. And even now, that the goal had been reached, the objective was still the same. He would not let this boy go it alone. He would help him now become the best of them all.

Athos then stood; touched the side of d'Artagnan's face, and pushed the damp hair from his forehead. "Yes", he replied and watched his friend's face transform from one of wariness to an open smile of gratitude.

d'Artagnan rose from the bale of hay to then stand beside his best friend. Together they walked to the wide open space and observed as the rain tapered to a stop; and the sun sneak out once more from behind white puffs of clouds – the impromptu shower now at an end.

Across the yard, they could see Aramis and Porthos as the two approached and called out to them in greeting.

"There is our new musketeer!" bellowed Porthos, who stopped in his tracks and placed his hands on hips and set his legs wide apart. His voice boomed and echoed toward them, full of life and verve - the affection in his speech warming d'Artagnan's heart.

"Are we ready to celebrate then?" Aramis chimed in loudly – as he grimaced; stepped carefully over puddles and waved for them to come over in his direction as to not sully his boots with mud any further.

Athos turned to d'Artagnan – who asked him suddenly out of the blue, "It is true then?", and held out his pauldron with awe to gaze upon it.

Athos cupped his neck and squeezed lightly; took the pauldron from his grasp; placed it once more about his shoulder and answered, "Yes."

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you will leave a review and let me know what you think of this moment. I remember the episode when d'Artagnan received his pauldron from Athos and I thought – hey where's the hug? So – here is the moment I wanted to see. Hope you enjoyed.


	5. Chapter 5

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Five: d'Artagnan makes an impulsive; unapologetic decision and must face the consequences.

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Chapter Five: The Bridge

d'Artagnan stood on the rocky bank of the stream, felt his feet shift slightly beneath him, and threw another stone within its depths, with as much fury; and strength as he could muster – without falling in.

The crisp air – blue, gray sky of fading sunlight – the serene, still water – did nothing to calm his spirit or abate his temper. The quiet of it all only served to egg him on and annoyed him to no end.

He steadied his feet firmly on the sliding rocks, reached down – grabbed up another stone, and launched it side armed with precise accuracy. He watched as it struck the tranquil pool – just where he wanted it to, and was glad of its disruption. The ripples cascaded from the center point out toward him in stringent waves that mirrored his unsettled emotions.

He swiped up another stone at his feet, and squeezed it tight. The frustration in him coiled, and twisted in his gut – traveled to his heart – which beat at a fast and furious pace. If he wasn't careful, he was going to explode and that coiled frustration would spring out and get him into more trouble than he was in already.

He frowned and felt the jagged edges of the stone prick his fingers and pressed even tighter. He tried to make sense of what happened today; how events took on a life of their own, and came up with nothing. What had he done to make him so angry?

d'Artagnan grit his teeth. His jaw line twitched with tension, which made his right eye jump in its socket, and his vision blur with anger. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes to clear the hazy fog creeping around the edges, but everything remained unclear and murky to him. The rough stone in his hand helped to keep his frayed nerves in check, as he rolled it between his hands and gained purchase from its sharp edges.

Nearby, over under the trees, sat the beleaguered bandits they had been dispatched to apprehend two days ago. The three disgruntled men sat tied up and gagged their hatred evident.

Looking at them now, d'Artagnan knew that if looks could kill – he and the others would have been dead hours ago – as daggers would not have been as accurate as their laser sharp glares. They had quit struggling against their bonds, and cursing them with profanity some time ago – when Porthos miraculously produced dirty rags to stop the flow. But the resentment they exuded was obvious, and simmered in their body language – much akin to his own ire.

d'Artagnan ignored their much deserved plight, turned from their piercing stares and glanced back out to the stream. Those three warranted more than being hog tied, gagged and escorted to the Chatelet – but unfortunately they were musketeers – not magistrates; or the King – who would be the ultimate enforcer to dole out swift French justice.

He reached for the hilt of his sword, and knew what justice he would hand out if given half the chance, and felt his heart skip a beat.

d'Artagnan felt his cheeks flush with renewed heat, and threw the stone in his grasp as far as he could to join the others already piling up in the bed of the stream. His feet slipped on the rocks, and he slid down toward the water, and sensed the wetness roll around the soles of his boots.

He watched the stone arc in the air, then land with a plunk. It sank into the watery depths, the ripples once again upsetting the glassy surface, causing birds to flutter in the distance and fish to break the surface, and scurry to more peaceful spaces.

He turned and saw that Aramis observed him with concern – the horses at his side stepped lightly as they drank and reacted to stones hitting water; the splashing sounds and small waves making them skittish.

d'Artagnan hastily turned away and dismissed Aramis' concerned gaze, snatched up another stone from the bank of many – ready to send it off – but was stilled by the sight of Athos seated by their campfire; alone and deep in thought.

He kept his eyes unobtrusively fixed on Athos as he poked at the kindling with a stick; stared without seeing the flames rise and cast shadows across his face. d'Artagnan could tell he was still angry.

Even from this far away he could see the tenseness in his shoulders and back. The space between them was much, but he could imagine the steel set of those green eyes, still there from their earlier, heated confrontation.

d'Artagnan glowered and turned his back to his friend, and attempted to concentrate on the calm stream, rocky bank, and dusky sky. It did no good. This calm, serene landscape before him was not helping. He took a breath, reared back his arm and threw the stone further than the others, his arm trembling with the effort.

He slid a bit further down the bank, and could just feel the cool water soak through his boots to his toes.

This agitated pent up emotion he felt now reminded him too much of the clashes he had periodically experienced with his own father. Run in's that led to heated arguments, silent dinners, and then always in the end, warm acceptance.

He shook his head and remembered with a twinge of guilt the incident of the almost stolen horse – not so long ago. It was the middle of the night, and they had heard the horse thief in their barn; and then sprinting away with a prized mare. d'Artagnan had leaped into action, followed on his own horse, chased the thief down at breakneck speed – vaulted from his mount, and knocked the man from the saddle to the ground - unconscious and bleeding.

He had proudly recouped their property, but also angered his fathers to such a state that he had spent hours listening to the man bemoan his reckless behavior; his lack of self-preservation, and not listening when he had yelled for him to stop, and let the man go. The horse – his father had pointed out – was not worth his life.

d'Artagnan had tried to argue his own point of view; that it had all worked out in the end – only to be shouted down and given every odd job his father could think of for a solid month.

Each time he had engaged in some foolhardy act – and there were many – his father had ranted over his impulsive nature.

d'Artagnan pushed the memories away, and glanced back subtly to his friend.

What had Athos to be angry about? It should be he that was angry; he that should be upset. And he was more than upset – he was livid. His ears burned with embarrassment and betrayal. In his mind – he had done nothing wrong. It was Athos who should be thanking him - not admonishing him for his actions.

Had he not followed Athos' example? Had he not done what he was taught? He bit his lip, tasted blood – and ground his teeth – causing his head to hurt.

Did he not try to follow the man's example in all things? Why should he be on the wrong end of discipline? d'Artagnan pressed his fingers to his temples, and attempted to rub the pain away – to sooth the ache, and gain control.

He snatched up another stone with agitation, and slung it out so far he heard it hit the other side of the bank with a metallic chink. Birds screeched and took flight – their flapping wings unnaturally loud in this quiet place.

When he reached down for another stone – the crunch of boots at his side informed him he was no longer alone.

"If you keep this up", Porthos offered, "You will build a bridge to the other side."

d'Artagnan looked to his friend, and thought to toss the stone anyway, but instead angrily dropped it to the ground, and threw himself down to sit on a jutting boulder close by.

After some moments of silence between them, Porthos crossed his arms across his broad chest, and waited patiently for d'Artagnan to begin. The only surrounding sounds were the slight ebb and flow of the current and the crackle of the growing flames of their campfire – spitting out embers.

The stillness suddenly became a suffocating, living thing and d'Artagnan could stand the silence no longer of the looming Porthos. He spoke up then, his voice tinged with aggravation, "Why is he so mad at me? What did I do that was so wrong?" He kicked the stones at his feet and clutched his fists tight on his knees, his face a myriad of emotions Porthos found difficult to keep up with.

So he studied d'Artagnan's body language carefully. Was it possible he did not really know his error – understand the severity of his actions; misinterpreted Athos' intentions? He concluded that by the look of things – perhaps not.

Porthos sighed deeply and spoke with deliberate firmness. "You disobeyed a direct order d'Artagnan. You left your position putting us all at risk."

d'Artagnan uncurled his fists, stood to his feet and faced down Porthos – his eyes ablaze. "I had to and you know it", he countered. "He would have done the same. I only did what he would have. There was no option."

Porthos stood taller and planted his most fearsome stare on the boy and spoke with a decidedly sharp edge. "Be that as it may, you disobeyed an order. Athos gives them for a reason. We follow them for a reason. You are a soldier d'Artagnan."

"But it all worked out in the end, didn't it?" d'Artagnan insisted – knowing he was right in his actions.

"Yes, it did – this time", Porthos countered with serious sobriety – his eyes squinted ever so slightly.

Porthos watched as d'Artagnan stepped back from him – eyes widening as comprehension flooded through his understanding of events. He then tilted abruptly and sat down hard on the boulder once again.

d'Artagnan touched the fleur-de-lis at his shoulder and squeezed unconsciously. He bowed his head; hair hiding his features, and spoke softly – "Yes", wringing his hands together now in clear distress.

He swiped his hair back from his face, rubbed his hands across the pants at his thighs – the fight in his argument wilting under Porthos' steady gaze and powerful presence.

"But I'm not sorry", he added with quiet determination – his anger spent – now resigned to whatever punishment Athos had to dole out.

Porthos released his own pent up anxiety with a sigh of relief and leaned forward to address his young friend, "No", he agreed. "There is no need to be sorry. Just understand why he's so upset, and accept the consequences – yeah?"

d'Artagnan looked up to his friend, and met his eyes, which stared back at him with sympathy; and nodded his assent.

He touched the furrowed wound at his neck – a scratch really – and felt the sting of it for the first time since it happened.

"Does it hurt?" Porthos asked, coming closer to inspect the scar better in the waning light; and tipped d'Artagnan's chin up to see the side of his neck. "No", d'Artagnan lied; and pulled away - not really wanting to deal with Aramis' poking and prodding over nothing.

What had hurt more was Athos' reaction. That he had grabbed him about his collar – pinned him to a nearby tree and shook him with rage was what hurt. Then to be yelled at – lectured to – told to think and follow orders – had spiked his temper – so that he was deaf to whatever else the man had to say.

All he could think was that he had saved Athos' life; saw the pistol raised and taking dead aim at him. Athos was about to take a bullet right before his eyes.

Yes, he had left his position. Yes he disobeyed an order – and he didn't care. He had done it for his friend. He had pushed him away from harm, and felt the sting of the bullet at his neck as it whizzed by and hit the tree behind them.

He would do it again without hesitation – be damned his position; and to hell with the bandits and a supposed window of opportunity for them to escape – thus jeopardizing the mission.

When they had gathered the bandits, disarmed and trussed them up – Athos had turned his fury on him without precedence. Aramis and Porthos had been taken by surprise. This strong a reaction of fear for d'Artagnan's safety new to them, but quickly recognized.

All attempts to extricate his fingers from d'Artagnan's collar were thwarted by Athos' adrenaline fueled concern and worry.

d'Artagnan had never seen him so angry – had never given cause for Athos to yell at him that way. But in the midst of that anger, he knew better than to raise his voice, argue his point – for his own temper was just as strong; and he would not add disrespect to whatever this was that was happening.

So he had instead pushed Athos away; and strode off to find solitude – to calm himself; to throw stones and gather his composure – to try and understand.

Porthos pressed his shoulder gently and brought him back to the present. "Now that you have almost built your bridge – go and finish it", and nudged him away from the rocky earth, toward the flames and Athos on solid ground.

d'Artagnan chuckled at the analogy and felt the rest of his anger dissipate, leave his body and weaken his resolve. What could he say? How could he make amends? Apologize he would not.

"Go on", Porthos pushed gently at his back.

As d'Artagnan made his way slowly toward his friend, Athos stood from the flames to greet him; and though his gaze held an unwavering glint – his eyes were no longer like steel. They …..

d'Artagnan turned back to glimpse Porthos nod and urge him forward with a wave of his hand. And as he turned to face Athos once again could see that his gaze still held the love of a brother – warm acceptance in their depths.

* * *

Thank you for reading this moment! I always wonder about our musketeers and their relationships. And though there are always more ups than downs I still wonder about the down times and their reactions. Many of you write beautifully constructed stories about this – which I admire greatly. Here is my attempt at just one particular moment. Please review and let me know what you think.

Also I want to take a moment to say "thank you" to everyone who has already commented, decided to follow and favorite this story. It means so much! I am smiling now from ear to ear!


	6. Chapter 6

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Six: 'The Bridge' carried over just a wee bit longer – to know what happens next.

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AZGirls' review got me to thinking about what happens next– so 'The Bridge' has been extended somewhat, to carry the moment over to 'The Other Side'. I hope you like it.

* * *

Chapter Six: The Other Side

Aramis pulled the horses by their reins and led them reluctantly away from the stream and up the rocky embankment toward camp. The four mounts protested the abrupt departure, but were well behaved livestock and like most musketeers of their breed, followed orders and were led up the hill without much prompting.

Aramis was glad of their obedience, and spoke sweet words of praise for their ears only – sprinkled in with promises of ripe, juicy apples and smiled as they pranced in his wake.

He then walked by their three captured bandits, tied up beneath the trees – bowed his head in their direction and smirked an insincere smile at their ominous glares – marred somewhat by the filthy gags pulling at their mouths. "Gentlemen", he offered and tipped his hat with exaggerated panache. He could just make out the garbled obscenities thrown his way and laughed.

As he tethered the horses amongst a clustering of trees, he could see d'Artagnan, urged on by Porthos – make his way tentatively toward the camp and their disgruntled friend. Aramis sighed with relief – grateful for Porthos' powerful gift of persuasion. For even though d'Artagnan's jaw was tight with determination – his eyes brimmed with adoration and a touch of hero worship.

When he looked to Athos – he saw the man stand and move to greet him, and was pleased. Reconciliation was definitely warranted here.

He thought back on the earlier heated exchange between his brothers and shook his head. Never before had he witnessed such a reaction from Athos, and it had unsettled him. He knew Porthos felt the same, as even their combined strength had not been enough to remove his grip from d'Artagnan's collar, and unpin him from the tree at his back.

The whole scene had been surreal. Only d'Artagnan's equal parts anger, and need to get away had loosed Athos' hold – and left him just as stunned as they were - staring down at his hands in disbelief.

Aramis moved closer to the camp and sat upon a downed tree; removed his hat and pulled his hand roughly through his unruly curls. As he watched Athos now, he considered him anew and observed him through a different lens.

He and Porthos had known Athos now for a little over five years; and knew for sure that he kept much of his past close to his vest and did not share much about his life before becoming a musketeer. It was his right, and it was not their way to pry and open wounds so carefully wrapped.

However, over time he had allowed them both in little by little – until now he could say with great certainty that he loved them both as brothers and would give or do anything in his power for them.

But this depth of emotion seen earlier today was beyond anything he had observed from Athos - ever. Clearly d'Artagnan had penetrated through whatever was holding back the turmoil and melancholia so evident in Athos' nature.

What was next, he wondered, as d'Artagnan walked slowly into the circle of the camp? He could see that Athos still seethed beneath his calm facade – but he could also see warmth and love in his usually veiled countenance.

When they met each other, near the heat of the flames, Aramis could sense between them a truce of sorts. d'Artagnan bowed his head, shuffled his feet uneasily and shrugged his shoulders – ready for his reprimand.

Aramis sought out Porthos' gaze in the background, and could feel him tense up along with him, his arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes fixed carefully on the interaction between the two.

They nodded to each other and hoped for a sensible outcome; and it seemed things were starting off well – so they waited.

Then Athos reached out to touch d'Artagnan's shoulder and before he could speak, his hand hesitated and hovered over the red, angry mark at the boy's neck.

Aramis could see the spark of agitation reignited from where he sat and sighed deeply. The conciliatory moment was gone, and Athos grabbed the back of d'Artagnan's coat and guided him with some force to the downed tree where he sat.

Without a word, he pushed d'Artagnan down beside him, tilted his chin upward and exposed the puffy, blood stained scar for him to see.

"I'm fine", d'Artagnan protested and shoved Athos' hand away – irritation crowding around the edges of his speech.

Aramis could feel another blow up brewing and stood quickly to his feet. He met Athos' glare full on and could sense the uncertainty there, warring with anger and frustration.

"I'll see to it", he offered and squeezed his friend's arm with assurance; and knew in that moment that Athos had no control over his emotions where d'Artagnan was concerned.

Athos removed his hat and looked absently toward the tree line – his thoughts scattered between here and the past. He then turned to Aramis, as if to speak, but no words came – his throat constricting on its own accord. Instead he gestured his hat in a vague direction away from the camp.

Aramis squeezed his arm again, and watched him walk away – as the day faded fast and the flames now their only true source of light.

Porthos had seen as well their friend's distress, and now stood next to him just as perplexed as he was. "I'll see to the meal", he said tiredly and moved away to ready something for them to eat.

When Aramis turned to his young friend, he noticed d'Artagnan watching Athos disappear among the trees. "Where is he going?" he asked – worry tinged in his query.

"To check the perimeter I think" he answered, as he reached down at his feet to pull his kit from his saddlebag.

"How do you know that?" d'Artagnan insisted. "I didn't hear him say that."

Aramis stood then to take in d'Artagnan's confusion. "No? I thought that's what I heard him say."

d'Artagnan frowned with annoyance. "The three of you do that all the time you know."

Aramis lifted his eyebrows in question, as he opened his kit and took out a flask of wine, cloth; needle and thread – laying them out neatly on the bark of the trunk.

"Talk to each other without speaking", d'Artagnan explained. "Half the time, I don't know what the three of you are talking about, because you're not saying anything."

Aramis tilted d'Artagnan's chin up; leaned his neck toward the bright flames and examined the furrow with experienced fingers, then caught his gaze which was filled with conflicting emotions.

"You understand our language well enough I think" Aramis chuckled with some humor. "But soon – I'm guessing – you will comprehend all of its nuisances – I am most certain of it."

He smiled then, poured wine on the pristine white cloth and held it up for d'Artagnan to see. "I will clean the wound now", and pressed the cloth to his neck. d'Artagnan hissed and attempted to pull away as the cool cloth hit his wound and stung like fire.

Aramis held the cloth fast and would not be moved. After a time, he lifted the cloth and cleaned away the excess blood and dirt.

"Stitches it is", he announced, as d'Artagnan pressed his lips tight, and narrowed his eyes in indignation. "There's no arguing against it", he laughed and handed him the small flask of wine. "Take a few swigs and brace yourself – this won't take long."

* * *

When Athos made his way back toward camp – full night had fallen and the only light emitted came from the flames of their camp fire – as there was only a slither of the moon to help illuminate the darkness. In the distance, he could hear owls greeting each other and night creatures scurrying to survive each other's predatory advances.

He stood just outside the circle of reds and yellows and could make out the sounds of horses shifting; the slight flow of water in the nearby stream; and the heavy breathing of their captives – indicating sleep.

There was nothing outside of this circle that posed a threat. He had walked the perimeter for hours and was sure of their safety.

But now as he stood outside looking in, he wasn't so sure he was safe. It had taken him years to find his balance – to regain his footing and have a purpose to his life that was steady and predictable. The life of a musketeer – duty to King and country; and the love of his brothers had seen to that.

But now that balance was precarious and he found himself standing on rocky ground; in unfamiliar territory.

He had not understood the depth of his feeling for d'Artagnan until that moment the boy had dove for him, saved his life and in turn almost lost his own. The sudden, quick evocation of Thomas lying dead at his feet had driven him over the edge. In that moment, he had lost all reason.

He looked up to the dark heavens and took in a deep breath. He needed to find a way back – back to his reliable coping mechanisms – back to some sense of equilibrium; but feared that time had passed, and would no longer be effective.

This boy had filled a hallow void with vibrant life, and there was no turning back he supposed. The flood gates were now open, and no wall would stem the tide. What he needed now was an anchor, so that he would not drift away or drown.

Whereas before he would numb his pain with drink and self-destructive behavior – now he needed something more solid. For now, he could feel it all. The past was back to haunt him, and d'Artagnan's selflessness had brought it to a head.

Athos stepped within the circle and found Aramis awake, staring into the flames – Porthos asleep beyond the downed tree; and d'Artagnan lying on his side by the fire – his blanket at his waist; hair hiding his features – breathing steady and even.

Aramis called to him then, and broke his train of thought. "Come sit Athos, all is well here."

And then suddenly the ground felt solid beneath his feet, and he moved to sit next to his friend.

* * *

As the kindling shifted in the heat and sent sparks of red embers floating upward, d'Artagnan turned to his back and moaned. His brow briefly creased in concentration, and then smoothed over in serene rest. Athos wondered what he must be thinking in his sleep.

He stood then from his seat by Aramis' side and bent to one knee; lifted the blanket to cover him to his chest, and lightly touched the wound at his neck. He considered d'Artagnan closely, and his heart clenched. He was so young – hot tempered and devoted beyond reason. What was he to do?

Aramis spoke up, "It's just a scratch really. He only needed a few stitches. It won't even leave a noticeable scar."

Athos stood and resumed his seat next to his friend. "There should be no scar at all", he countered, looking off into space – his voice hoarse and clipped – memories assailing him from all directions.

"Better you – a bullet to the chest or worse?" Aramis asked with some heat, but expected no response.

They sat then quietly in each other's company for some time until Aramis broke through the spell of hushed calmness – his mind made up to speak plainly.

"You have kept much about yourself from us Athos – as is your right. Lord knows Porthos and I bear our own burdens and choose not to share. But I sense d'Artagnan is much like you, and things you hold close will not stay hidden for much longer. He worships the ground you walk on, if you haven't noticed."

Aramis sensed Athos tense beside him, but barreled ahead – saying what needed to be said, "He reminds you of someone; and I can see it brings you joy and grief."

Athos rubbed at the back of his neck, nodded; and thought how well Aramis knew him – could read him, and keep him grounded. "Yes", he acknowledged, "you are correct – joy and grief are the sentiments."

Aramis looked to his brother and heard the high regard there in his voice; then waited a beat for more of a revelation, but none was forthcoming. The fire hissed and spit before them, and Aramis could feel the tension slowly release from his brother's body.

He nudged Athos with his shoulder and leaned into him for emphasis, "When you are ready to share Athos, we are here to listen, but in the meantime, you must speak to him. He has given his brotherhood to us all, but I believe he has given his love and loyalty to you."

Athos nodded then in understanding and gazed back at Aramis, his eyes weary and worried with fear. He stood once again to his feet and pushed his hair from his face. "You are right Aramis. I see much of myself in him, and must try and temper it before that trait gets him killed."

Aramis smiled up at his friend and shook his head with compassion. "Porthos and I have tried that tactic on someone we hold in high esteem, but have failed miserably. He is who he is Athos. There is no tempering his courage and loyalty."

Athos' gaze then drifted once more to the tree line beyond the warm circle, and he gestured with his hat that he would again walk the perimeter.

Aramis sighed, exasperation heavy and thick around him. "Go then Athos, but please, think on what I've said."

Athos nodded and walked away from the light, into the darkness out among the trees. Beyond the downed tree, Porthos sat up and peered at his friend. "Do you think he heard you?" he asked – a touch of anxiousness in his voice.

Aramis shrugged, kicked dirt toward the fire, then watched as the kindling fell inward and imploded with a crash.

In his sleep, d'Artagnan turned himself from his back and to his side – away from the fire – unaware of the shift he had caused in Athos' life.

* * *

As they rode away from camp – prisoners towed along in their wake by foot – d'Artagnan sat atop his mount solemnly at the back of their small caravan – his thoughts wandering, to think on how Athos had not said a meaningful word to him all morning.

He could see the man was no longer angry – but wanted to hear his thoughts and as Porthos had advised, wished to accept the consequences of his actions. Yesterday had been stressful, and he did not like the strain between them.

But Athos had greeted him with a neutral good morning – instructed him on breaking camp; and preparing the prisoners for travel. Otherwise, there had been no real conversation.

Now, they were almost to Paris, and his nerves were on edge – wondering what to expect when they returned home.

When he roused from his musings, he was caught off guard to find Athos at his side; facing forward atop his own mount – watching the way ahead with forced intensity. d'Artagnan swallowed hard, and sat straighter in his saddle.

This was it, he thought – here comes the conversation that would breach the gulf between them. He studied Athos' profile; attempted to gauge his mood; steady his rapid heartbeat, and regulate his breathing. A nervous energy settled in his stomach and fluttered like butterflies.

After a few moments of silence, Athos spoke with a decisive mettle to his voice. "I wish you to follow my lead d'Artagnan; and think before you act. Following orders is what may keep you alive to fight another day; and protect the men around you."

d'Artagnan nodded slowly and then looked toward Porthos, for clarification – who then winked back at him for encouragement.

"Do you think you could do that?" Athos pressed, obviously expecting some response.

d'Artagnan bobbed his head up and down with enthusiasm and piped up, "Yes, I can do that. But I won't forfeit your life Athos – never."

Athos took a breath to steady his racing heart, the vein at his temple throbbing – threatening to derail his overture.

"When we get back to the garrison" , Athos continued, "I will consult with the Captain, but I believe no missions; guard duty; mucking out the stalls and giving Serge a hand at whatever he wants or needs doing for a month should suffice as a reasonable reprimand." He stole a glance Aramis' way – whose eyebrows climbed up into his hairline.

And so added - "What say you to this?"

"I accept the consequences", d'Artagnan said with genuine conviction and relief as Porthos reined his horse in to join him at his side, reached over and cuffed the back of his head with affection.

Athos gave a terse nod, and moved once more to the head of their procession, and acknowledged with gratitude Aramis' fond pat on the back as they cantered at a steady pace, side by side toward home.

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Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this extended moment. Please review and let me know what you think! Also thanks again to all of you have read, reviewed, favorited and followed this story – and a special thank you to AZGirls for your suggestion. The response to these moments has overwhelmed me, and I am still smiling.


	7. Chapter 7

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Seven: Longing for love makes it hard to sleep.

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This moment popped in my head and I hope you like it. Thanks so much for reading!

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Chapter Seven: Perfect Reflection

d'Artagnan lay his blanket on the hard, unyielding ground – spread it out carefully and promised himself that he would sleep tonight. He would not dream – see her in his mind's eye or love her again in that unguarded moment of complete abandon.

Instead, he would think of other things – the successful mission; his brother's safe keeping and unremarkable weather that would see them home without delay on tomorrow. This is what he would occupy his mind with.

He was determined that he would lay his head down – rest his body and mind; and think only of their safe return, mundane chores; and routine acts of the day.

Across the flames – Aramis and Porthos spoke in companionable whispered tones and could not know his pain, for to his credit, he thought – he hid it well; and made sure not to mention or give away the depths of his heartache. He spoke only of her now as his friend – his dear friend; and continued to love her in secret without sharing the torture of his loss.

He turned from them, and somewhat apart – sat Athos – his back against a nearby tree; his own worries etched around his eyes and tight jawline. His countenance spoke of Milady and the conflicting emotions she reined over him. This gave him pause; and he wished there was something he could do or say that would help make a difference; bring him some peace – and in some way assuage his own guilt on the matter.

d'Artagnan laid his head upon his saddle; squirmed about a bit to find comfort among the rocks, and vowed that he would not share his anguish of late – for his friends were tormented with their own burdens and it would serve no purpose to layer them with his own.

Although he looked to his friends for example on many fronts - he could handle his own affairs of love after all – couldn't he?

d'Artagnan gazed up to the night sky, the bright blinking stars and attempted to clear his mind, as he breathed in and out with measured breath; and hoped for the best. After some moments of attempted forced slumber, he opened his eyes and frowned up to the heavens in exasperation.

And though he had undertaken to only think of everyday, run-of-the mill things, such as the successful delivery of the King's missive; and all that entailed – the thought of her crept slowly in along the edges and disrupted enough to break his pledge to himself.

Before he knew it his mind had flashed back and took him to that moment – so many months ago – that moment that now to him had become the most perfect reflection. He could on most occasions count on that moment to soothe his raw nerves; calm his temper; and ease his worries in times of stress and recompense.

And though he wished not to think of her – but to sleep, to rest – he couldn't help it- rest just would not come. For even as the thought of her brought him peace – they also tortured his senses and played havoc with his emotions.

He sighed deeply and recounted every aspect of that moment as if it happened just hours ago. He had confessed and given to her what he had never given another – his assertion and admission of love; and his complete devotion.

She was perhaps the most beautiful, bravest, most caring and honorable woman he had ever known. There would be no other woman he would consider spending his life with.

He had not meant to reveal it that day, in that moment or in that way – but the words had rushed from his mouth on their own accord; and he could not – did not want to take them back. She had accepted his declaration with fevered bliss – affirmed by her impassioned embrace; and all reason between them was lost.

It had been one of the happiest moments of his life – to hear her demand he say the words again – to wrap his arms around her – to hold her; kiss her; to make passionate love to her.

But now, no matter how much he professed his love; attempted to appease her doubts; promised to protect her at all costs – she would not accept; and so his most precious moment was also his most bittersweet – and caused him unrest.

d'Artagnan closed his eyes and tried to shut out the pain of her rejection, but instead felt the heat of her as if she were right here next to him – laying here on the hard earth with him, peering up to the stars; holding his hand and whispering "yes" in his ear.

He clutched at his chest and felt a sharp pain there under his rib – and understood it was the grief of heartache that caused such a twinge.

He knew it was true that people succumbed to such an affliction – broken hearts – and had heard tell of it back home in Lupiac. Such was the account of Monsieur Simon, who on his way home from market – had his horse spooked by a wayward child and had been thrown roughly from his horse – dead in an instant as his neck broke in the fall.

When distraught neighbors informed his wife – she sat in her rocker before the hearth – and by all accounts from eye witnesses – called her husband's name and left to greet him in the afterlife – mere hours between them in death. She had followed him quickly, unable to live without him.

d'Artagnan rolled over to his side; stared into the flames – and knew he could not live without her.

He dreamed of that unrestrained, reckless moment between them often. So often, it had become a living memory – played out over and over again in his mind – unable to let him go, so that he could move on.

When he closed his eyes, there she was – her auburn hair curled about his chest – her arm around his waist holding him close - the naked weight of her at his side - among the onions; the flour; the fruit – breathing soft breaths into his neck – that tickled up to his ear and made him laugh.

He could now, at this moment feel the dampness of her skin pressed to his; her eyes bearing down on him, searching his – repeating his name.

d'Artagnan flopped to his back. The cool breeze of evening brushed back the bangs from his forehead and he could have sworn that it was she, not the wind who carded fingers through his hair; kissed his brow; his lashes, and then the side of his mouth.

When his manhood ached for her, he thought he heard her giggle with delight and heat flushed up from his neck to his cheeks and burned his ears. He sat up straight away to ease the coming discomfort and moaned with part embarrassment and part longing.

Suddenly he felt dizzy with an internal sauna and removed his jacket with haste.

"You tarry too close to the flames", he heard Athos say with clarity, and met his gaze where he sat under the nearby tree. His eyes held a knowing glint, and d'Artagnan felt his cheeks burn the more.

He swept his hair from his damp forehead and nodded his reluctant agreement to the loaded statement and Athos' assessment of things. For Athos said nothing without meaning; and always with hidden words of wisdom - that told him now, he had played with fire, and now the heat of it would plague him.

"Come, sit father away from the heat, so you can cool off and rest."

d'Artagnan stood then from his blanket to his feet, and made his way over to the cool spot of the trees. He sat beside his best friend and leaned his head back against the tree and sat this way at his side in stillness and silence.

The languid sway of branches, the gentle rustle of leaves; Aramis' and Porthos' quiet murmurs sang to him, and eventually the kiss on his brow lifted and drifted away with the delicate gust of wind.

He leaned in slightly and felt his shoulder touch with Athos' and his mind cleared itself of the mundane; the events of the day; and the passions for the love of his life.

In increments his body relaxed in degrees of weightlessness, his lids drooped then blinked slow and heavy to the rhythm of his settling heartbeat. He considered drowsily how worn-out he must be that his eyes should close without his bidding.

His head fell to his chest; and just as his cheek pressed against Athos' shoulder and then adjusted to lay at his mentor's chest – he thought on her radiant smile; her optimistic spirit; her beautiful face; and called to her softly, "Constance."

Someone gently ruffled the hair atop his head; a sense of calm descended, and he let sleep take him down to oblivion and much needed rest.

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Thank you so much for reading this moment; and thanks to all of you who comment; favorite and follow. I so enjoy the d'Artagnan/Constance relationship. The many complications; turmoil and angst they had to endure before good fortune finally came to them made good television and I hope good character reflection. I hope you enjoyed this. Please let me know what you think. Your comments mean so, so much. You just don't know!


	8. Chapter 8

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Eight: a quiet moment leads to heartfelt revelations.

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Thank you all so much for reading these moments! Your comments and thoughts about each chapter have meant a great deal. You are all wonderful! Hope you enjoy chapter eight!

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Chapter Eight: Journey Home

The four musketeers cantered along at an even pace atop their mounts. It was an amiable walk between men and beasts – as they scanned about their surroundings for a descent, defensible place to rest.

The three day journey toward home, so far, had been without incident – quiet and comfortable between them. No worries seemed to follow – only weariness, dust and grime.

To be home again soon, was the unified mantra they carried with them – eager to be back among the musketeers – safe behind garrison walls.

Athos observed his friends covertly – as they him, he was sure – and thought a rest would do them all some good; and Paris was not so far away. He looked to the vastness of the sky and breathed in the fresh, clean air; and noted the weather was agreeable enough.

There was no rain to speak of; it was not too hot and not too cool – just in between – to not be bothersome or encumber the journey. Every now and then, the sun peeked through heavy, white clouds and gave off a magnificent scene of streaking pink, golden rays descending to earth.

The live portrait before him reminded them all of those religious paintings, or stained glass found in cathedral windows – where God looked down among the masses with benevolence to spread His good will. Perhaps soon – he mused, even an angel would appear to help guide them further on their way.

Aramis to his right gazed upon the sight before them; and brought his horse to a complete stand still. He closed his eyes – reached for the crucifix hanging about his neck, and pressed it solemnly to his lips. He whispered praise to God – his words unintelligible – but the smile he emitted was understood – for the scenic beauty of this vision was not lost on them.

His friends waited patiently, alongside for his prayer to end. The horses shifted from hoof to hoof as they shared happily in his reverence with silent appreciation.

When he opened his eyes, he found they gazed on the image before them with as much awe as he, and offered, "Praise be to God for such a lovely miracle to mark our travels."

They all turned to him, nodded their agreement; and then urged their mounts on. They continued forward, the picturesque moment emblazoned in their minds as something to remember from this trek – so that when back home among their brothers – there would be such a story to tell of this shared moment of visual glory between them.

Gradually in their wake, a pleasant clearing emerged. There stood wide trunked oaks, topped full of leafy foliage and acorns. Beyond the trees, a nearby stream – hopefully with fish aplenty – could be heard lapping against the shore; and beneath them lush green areas of grass covered the ground to temper the rocky earth.

The countryside of France was indeed beautiful; and today she showed all her brilliance and splendor.

They came to a halt as one before the scene, and seemed to agree without conversation that this would be the place to stop and rest for the remainder of the day and into the night.

Athos took the initiative then; swung his leg around and slowly lowered himself to the ground from his saddle. A groan of fatigue escaped his lips before he could recant; and his bones popped and creaked as he arched his back to stretch the tiredness away.

Aramis and Porthos joined him; removed their hats and pulled their horses along by the reins to find their place to hunker down.

d'Artagnan – still atop his mount – called to them with much enthusiasm, "I'll search down by the stream; check the area and circle back to you." He urged his horse forward at a brisk pace, and was lost among the trees in moments.

Athos frowned and looked to call him back, but Aramis' hand, placed at his shoulder squeezed firmly and stilled his tongue. "He will be fine. I sense no others about – you?"

Athos bowed his head and acknowledged his brother's reassurance, "No, I just wish he wouldn't do that."

Porthos laughed at the terse comment, and added, "He is a man of action that one." Fondness laced around the edges of his mirth, as he sat heavily on a downed tree trunk and rubbed at his sore shoulders. His horse bumped his chest with friendly persuasion; and he caressed his nose with genuine care.

The others nodded in assent at his observation, tethered the horses; removed saddles and began the marking of a pit – to start a fire for the evening meal and warmth.

Sometime later, d'Artagnan returned to the camp; leaped from his horse before it came to a stop; and rushed toward his friends – pulling his plodding horse along behind him to tether next to the others. With his hair askew – eyes bright and cheeks warm with exertion – the inseparables chuckled at his energy; and remembered themselves at twenty with some pain, but mostly with amusement.

"Everything looks clear", d'Artagnan announced; and literally bounced on his toes before them – ready to take on another task. He looked to each brother waiting for some direction – his expression eager and earnest.

Athos, seeing this overflow of energy – threw the water skins his way, "Then fill these and gather kindling for the fire", he charged; and grinned slightly as d'Artagnan deftly caught the skins midair – nodded; turned and raced off to the stream.

Over his shoulder he called out, "When I get back, I'll brush down, feed and water the horses!"

As Porthos watched him move away; he massaged his aching thighs and lamented with some cheek, "What will we do when he is fully grown?"

Athos removed his hat, sat next to his friend and leaned forward to ease the crick in his back – "We will look back on these moments with fondness; and wish he was a youth again", he sighed with some regret – for soon he knew – d'Artagnan would enter a new phase in his life, that would leave behind the bright glare of newly minted musketeer.

"Not only that", Porthos continued, "we will miss his gusto. He won't want to do all the chores anymore".

Aramis chimed in, stretching out his cramped calves – "or volunteer to catch the fish."

"Listen to our tales of adventure", Porthos continued sadly…

"or rush headlong into danger", added Athos – who looked off into the trees with his brow furrowed and lips tight.

The three sat quietly for a moment, and thought deeply about the not so distant future.

"I believe we become nostalgic too soon", Aramis grinned and slapped his brothers on the back to bring them around to the here and now.

They looked to him then, nodded, and readied the camp.

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As the day waned lazily from evening to night, the four sat around the warmth of the flames, satiated with the catch of the day; and refreshed from dips in the steam – all dirt removed and now replaced with freshly scrubbed skin tingling with the polish of cleanliness.

d'Artagnan considered his friends closely, and thought how lucky he was to be among these great men.

Aramis sat close to the fire – cleaning his firearms with the same amount of precision and grace he used when taking aim, and firing at a target – still or moving. A slight smile played on his lips and the flames caught the glint in his eye that spoke of his mischievous and adventurous nature; and something else hidden there he didn't quite understand.

d'Artagnan wondered what he thought of as he watched his hands move deftly over his muskets. Today he had stood ankle deep in the water with Aramis and learned how to catch a fish with his bare hands. He had laughed so hard his sides hurt, as the fish squirmed and fought to escape his grip.

The memory of it made him smile even now – knowing they would not have had a meal, if it weren't for Aramis pushing him toward the shoreline so that the wiggling fish could fall safely from his hands onto dry land.

He fell then to his side; rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, and studied the relaxed profile of Porthos – who stared into the blaze, and then to the stars – his thoughts seemingly far from this place. Porthos leaned back to rest against the strong oak at his back and d'Artagnan could not help but to compare the two. Strong and steady was Porthos – he mused.

Porthos had just finished regaling him with a tale from the inseparables' past – one he had heard many times – but never tired of hearing. Porthos could tell a story like no other; and always held him spellbound – all exaggeration accepted as his way of getting a point across.

He sighed deeply and hoped that one day he too would have tales of his own to share of his adventures with these three heralded men.

d'Artagnan flopped to his stomach, placed his head on his forearms and viewed Athos unobserved from the ground; as the man studied his surroundings - his body on alert for any sound or movement out of the ordinary.

One day he would be such a soldier – brave; unwavering and fearless.

Just hours ago, after supper, he and Athos had sparred together with a renewed energy that only rest and a good meal could bolster. He had been put through his paces; and finally his boundless energy level had been worn down by Athos' elegance and strength - so that now he sat here relaxed, enjoying the good company of his brothers.

He felt quite fortunate; and still glowed with pride at Athos' praise and compliments for his improved swordsmanship. He swelled within himself with satisfaction – not wanting to seem too cocky in his mentor's presence.

d'Artagnan looked to each of his friends and marveled at their attention to duty and hoped one day to embody the adventurous spirit of Aramis; the steadfastness of Porthos; and vigilance of Athos. He loved them all and wished the day would never end.

Today had been a most perfect day – one of peace; and kindred fellowship. They had laughed together; eaten together; and were now at rest. He could not ask for more.

d'Artagnan sat up then; crossed his legs beneath him – cleared his throat and leaned forward to address his friends sincerely. There was something he must say before the moment passed.

His brothers; roused from their own thoughts – waited for his announcement and watched him now with full attention.

"I wish to remember", he began with care, "I wish to remember this day – this moment for the rest of my life. To have you here", he touched his brow with the heel of his hand, "and here" – he clutched his shirt at his heart, "as you are now – sitting here before the fire."

d'Artagnan bowed his head; gathered his thoughts and continued, "I never want to forget - this." He ended his speech with his arms spread wide to encompass them all.

He then smiled wide, and they in turn gazed back at him with true affection.

Porthos winked his acknowledgement; Aramis gently caressed his crucifix and nodded with agreement.

Over the crackle of the flames, Athos' eyes met his; softened with the remembered image of d'Artagnan standing barefoot and drenched in the stream – the evening meal held over his head with triumph – his laughter echoing among the trees, and added – "The feeling is mutual."

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Thank you so much for reading! Please review and let me know what you think. There is not a lot of action here, but I hope you enjoyed the musings of our musketeers in this unguarded moment between them. I really wanted to explore a peaceful moment in their lives; but could not settle from whose point of view. I hope it turned out okay. Thank you again to everyone for reading, commenting; following and/or clicking on the favorite button for this story.


	9. Chapter 9

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Nine: d'Artagnan finds that loyalty and grief are acquainted with all men and discern no allegiance to color of the cloak.

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Thank you everyone for reading; following or favorting this story! Your reviews have touched me greatly. I never expected to write anything that would lead to over one hundred reviews. You are wonderful! Thank you! I hope you enjoy chapter nine.

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Chapter Nine: Blue and Red

d'Artagnan stood ready – taunt and tense in his purpose. A purpose, he decided that he would not yield from until told otherwise. Leon held fast on the other side of the ornate carriage, and he was glad of the Red Guard's presence.

His red hair, freckles, and flushed face matched the color of his cloak, which no longer garnered competition or resentment between them. He was now, only Leon – a soldier, like him – fighting to protect King and country.

"Hold steady", he called out to his onetime adversary, who now stood with him as his brother in arms. Today – together, they were of one mind; to survive this and see their friends again.

Inside the gold trimmed royal carriage – the sovereign decoy, Monsieur Lamont, chosen for this role due to his uncanny resemblance to the King, sat stiff on the floor below the seats. His borrowed, silken attire now rumpled and soaked with sweat – stuck to his body and made it hard for him to breathe.

The man's eyes were wide with fear, but his jaw clenched with determination – his courage shown in good stead. Alongside him crouched two of the "royal entourage" – their weapons held tight, as they flinched at each retort of distant musket fire.

But they heard d'Artagnan's order, rallied around his leadership and held steady.

They were under siege – and the outlying sounds of fighting – sharp clangs of metal on metal; musket fire and shouts of rage could be heard out beyond their position. They listened, on the edge of reason and could hear the desperate, reverberations of heated battle, which echoed from tree to tree, and reached them in an ebb and flow of turbulence.

d'Artagnan held back his instinct to disregard orders; to run head long into its throng – to find his brothers; and to be by their side. Instead, he repositioned the sword in his hand and waited – waited here with these four men for whatever may come.

So, he rolled the stiffness in his shoulders and gazed up at the mid-day sun, which beat down on them relentlessly. Sweat plastered hair to the sides of his face, neck and forehead –but he dared not lose concentration to swipe it away.

He held his sword strong in one hand and his musket with trigger finger at its place in the other. He knew Leon did the same and trusted the man was as alert as he. They had spoken somewhat to one another during this ordeal – traded brief histories; and together had promised to hold this position – protect the decoy – continue the ruse.

It's what Athos had wanted; and he would obey the order – even though it went against every fiber of his being.

Pandemonium within and beyond the trees had his nerves on edge. Every sharp crack of a musket had his mind conjuring up images of Aramis fallen – every grunt and cry had him thinking of Porthos overtaken, held down by the insurgents. And every clatter of striking metal had his heart dropping to his stomach, with the taste of bile rising up in his throat.

He swallowed hard, pushed down the torrent that rumbled in his gut and held the nausea at bay.

Above all he feared Athos hurt; bloodied; lost – and remembered his vow to him all those months ago, and berated himself for breaking his word.

d'Artagnan shook his head to let loose the cobwebs of that day; remembered Athos' anger toward him, and knew now his reaction for what it was – worry; for he felt it now. He blinked the sweat from his lashes and bore the sting of salt in his eyes; and blinked all the more to clear his vision.

No – he could not think like this. Athos had assured him before he departed – that he would see him again – soon.

He stretched his fingers out to loosen the joints; clasped the hilt tighter; and rearranged his feet for a better stance. So far he, Leon, and the others had fought off several men – who must have broken through their comrades' line of defense.

The skirmish had been sudden; fierce but over in moments. Musket fire from the "decoys" felled some before they could even lift a weapon. He and Leon fought back to back in sync and with a force that displayed their experience in combat; and outmatched their opponents, if not in sheer will, then in tactics. They never had a chance.

He looked down to the man bleeding out at his feet – which he had run through with his sword - a fatal thrust to the gut. In the throes of death the man had called out for his mother; let out his last breath in a soft sigh – and stared off into nothing.

d'Artagnan had stepped back from him, blood now on his hands; tunic and blue cloak. He breathed hard with exertion – not prepared for his youthful features and wondered who he was – what had led him to betray his King and had his friends met a similar fate?

But that was early on. So now, the four of them stood their ground and listened to the echo of fighting with trepidation; as the sounds continued to resonate around them.

Only hours ago – their detail; one of three decoys for the King's entourage – had fallen under surveillance, and then attack. It was just as they had planned. The eight man regiment of Red Guard and Musketeers assigned to be the lure, traveled on the road back to Paris from the summit in Ars-en-Re'. They had been targeted so that the King could follow another route safely home.

Aramis had scouted from behind, and brought word that they were being followed. The bait and switch had worked. The attack by armed, disgruntled French citizens had come gradually, with much shouting of repressed freedoms – hatred of their government and stray musket fire.

Athos ordered he and Leon to ride ahead with the carriage and find a defensible location to engage the enemy – as the others followed from the rear.

They had done so, and found just the place with water at their backs. Quickly closing ranks to hear instructions – Athos and Roland, of the Guard dispensed orders at a rapid pace – and before he knew it Aramis, Porthos and two Red Guards had mounted, and then raced on horseback for the trees; dust and rock swirling in their wake.

Athos stood then before him – reins held tight in his hand to control his dancing horse – his lips pressed firm. d'Artagnan eagerly stepped to him, prepared to follow. He had thought to ride with him – have his back.

He moved to gather his own horse tethered at the rear of the carriage, anticipated being at his side.

But Athos gripped his arm to stay him. "You and Leon will remain here and protect Monsieur Lamont." Roland nodded his agreement and mounted his prancing horse to await Athos – spinning in circles; his body tense with the need to get moving. Leon locked eyes with his commander in assent.

d'Artagnan stood still and rigid – looked down at the hand on his arm, protest already formed in his mind – on his tongue – ready to argue; but instead he pulled free from Athos grasp and reached for the reins of his horse.

He would not hear it. Monsieur Lamont was not the sovereign – the two men who accompanied – were not the royal party. He would not let him go without him.

Through the trees he could hear metal meeting metal, and knew Aramis and Porthos were already engaged. His heart pounded in his chest in time with the groans and shouts of pain. d'Artagnan turned and behind him, Monsieur Lamont and the "party" hunkered down to the floor of the carriage; and drew their muskets. Leon unsheathed his sword in expectation of battle.

He turned back to his friend with indecision. He had vowed not to forfeit his life – had pledged himself to stand by him in battle and see no harm come to him. So far, in his brief stint as a true musketeer he had done this. Would Athos deny him this now, when he was needed most?

He looked around for some answer; some sign that would tell him what to do – the sky, the trees, to the ground – but found none; and with resignation knew that Athos was right. They must continue the deception at all cost. The King must get back to Paris. He took in a shuddered breath. Was it the King for Athos then?

Athos reached for his neck and brought him close. "Do this", he whispered intently – his eyes soft with affection. He gazed then to Leon also and pierced them both with steady regard. "Do not leave your post until we return."

He cupped d'Artagnan's cheek, and then squeezed his neck quickly. "Soon" – he reiterated.

d'Artagnan grabbed hold of his wrist; nodded back and when Athos released him, unsheathed his sword and watched as he mounted up and rode away – his blue cloak flapping alongside red, as he and Roland disappeared beyond the trees.

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This moment of realization for d'Artagnan sort of took on a life of its own, and is a little longer than I thought it would be. I hope to post the second half of this moment next week. Still – I hope you enjoyed it. Please review and let me know what you think! Your comments mean the world!


	10. Chapter 10

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter ten: d'Artagnan finds that loyalty and grief are acquainted with all men and discern no allegiance to color of the cloak.

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Here is the second part of 'Blue and Red', I hope you enjoy! Thanks again to everyone who reads, reviews, favorites and follows this story. You are an unbelievable audience!

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Chapter Ten: Red and Blue

As another hour passed with no fighting left on their part – Leon came to stand by d'Artagnan's side, and together they peered out into the trees, and listened as the violence of battle seemed to be dying down.

Brief moments of staccato pops or clanging steel with long respites of silence reached their hearing and gave them some hope that Red Guards and Musketeers would file back to their position – soon.

The carnal evidence of their own conflict – several dead men faced down; engorged; shot and bloodied in the dirt – gave testament of how thoroughly they had met their own challenges. The still, stiff bodies kept them grim company; and left a sour taste at the back of d'Artagnan's throat. He swallowed down the foulness and swayed slightly; dizzy from the bloodshed that surrounded them.

d'Artagnan kneeled in the red tinged dirt; reached over and pressed closed the eyes of the dead boy at his feet; and prayed silently – "please, please, please" - that his friends would come to meet him unscathed. He shuddered slightly and stood back to his feet and looked wearily to the sky – his shoulders, arms and legs aching from constant vigilance.

He noticed that the bright sun of mid-day had given way to a dusky hue. So intent was he on his duty, that he had not perceived the passage of time. Soon the day would end; evening would be upon them and he wondered vaguely if the King had made it back to Paris safely. Leon clapped his back in solidarity, and sighed heavily - his eyes rimmed puffy and red with exhaustion.

d'Artagnan rose to his full height at his overture, and called out to the three men in the carriage, "How goes it?"

His voice hoarse from disuse, Monsieur Lamont called out, "Well", and waved his hand through one of the open windows. d'Artagnan could see that three muskets still lay trained on the sills of the carriage; ready to fire at anyone or anything that advanced toward them.

d'Artagnan nodded to them as he and Leon primed themselves once again for action; their enemies blood glazed red on the tips of their swords, dotted on their faces and splattered on their cloaks, pants and boots. They reloaded their muskets and held on with white knuckled grips.

Their raised hopes that the outlying skirmish may be coming to an end was met by a single shot of a musket that pierced the air and caused the group to flinch and stare out into the distance. And then there was nothing.

For some moments after that lone sharp, crack - an uncanny silence descended. Shots; clangs; screams no longer bombarded their senses. Not a bird; rustle of a leaf; waves hitting the shore at their backs could be heard.

It was as if all sound had been sucked away; and in its wake was left a hushed, noiseless void.

d'Artagnan looked to Leon whose expression seemed stricken and pained – his freckles stark red against his pale skin. d'Artagnan frowned back at him and spun around, uncertain as to what was happening. What had Leon seen to disturb him so? No one lurked and there was nothing to hear but - peace.

The profound stillness unsettled d'Artagnan, and he wondered if this was a quiet before the next storm. Was there more of the battle to come or was this a mark in time that something had happened to the others? Was this what Leon had felt in that moment that caused him such anguish?

Suddenly through the trees, twigs snapped; horses brayed and four men came crashing through toward them on foot; their mounts snorting alongside them. d'Artagnan and Leon startled from the sudden onset of noise; and stepped forward ready to charge. The men in the carriage raised their muskets from the window sill's intent on fighting for their lives and firing on anything that moved.

"All for one, little brother", Porthos' voice boomed out over their harsh breathing; and pounding hearts. Then another voice yelled right after, "For France", and they stopped in their tracks – the familiar words cutting through their adrenaline.

Relief held their charge and trigger fingers at bay. They looked to each other and smiled as their lips and hands shook of their own accord. Aramis, Porthos and the two Red Guards who hours ago had ridden out together to meet the insurgents head on stood now before them. They were tired, drained, and covered in sweat and blood – confirmation of their deadly battle among the trees.

"What news here?" Aramis asked as he drew near – a glint of dismay hinted in his eyes as he took in the surroundings.

Monsieur Lamont and his two compatriots sagged within the carriage overcome with joy. They lowered their muskets; left the confines of the carriage on weakened legs that trembled and had them falling to the ground in boneless heaps.

Monsieur Lamont kissed the earth and laughed.

d'Artagnan walked slowly toward his brothers; sheathed his sword and answered, "All is well" – and moved to embrace them – as did Leon his comrades. The warmth of Aramis' and Porthos' arms about his shoulders settled his racing heart and the earlier sense of foreboding receded.

When he stepped back to get a better look at them, he saw no signs of pain in their eyes; only fatigue and the relief of survival. Their affect allayed his fears, and he reached to hold each of them again with more strength - where upon Aramis kissed his cheek, and Porthos rubbed his head fondly.

When he finally released them, he looked over their shoulders; beyond them out into the woods and asked, "Where is Athos?"

Aramis' smile slipped from his lips to form a frown. He removed his hat; and shook his head – dark curls spilling around his face. "Not with us", he sighed and leaned heavily against the royal carriage – wiping the sweat and blood from his forehead.

"We believe the enemy is defeated. We saw no more men after dispatching the ones we engaged with in the trees", one of the Red Guards announced – a harsh, ragged scar now marring his handsome features and puckered at his jaw.

Porthos nodded and continued, "We thought Athos and Roland may have made it back here."

They all remained silent then, and listened with intense care – hoping to hear their friends call out the familiar mottos to let them know of their return. Instead, only the leaves rustled; small critters bustled under dry brush; and the horses stomped their hooves – restless now that the battle was over.

The earlier pervasive silence prickled at the back of d'Artagnan's mind.

Some inner resolve overtook him, and he unsheathed his sword once more; resumed his position in front of the carriage with the three men now seated in the dirt. He had promised not to leave his post until Athos returned to tell him otherwise. Leon took his cue and followed suit – worry etched on his face.

They had both heard the order – Roland had agreed; he would remain also. Together they stood ready once more.

Aramis, Porthos and the Red Guards frowned in confusion. The battle was over. They need now only wait for the others to return, or go in search of them. What were these two doing?

Aramis considered the two with caution and asked, "What is it you both stand ready for? The battle is ended."

d'Artagnan stood straighter in his stance; his eyes narrowed with single minded purpose, "We are not to leave this post until he returns." The defiant edge to his voice sent off warning bells in Aramis; as Leon – jaw clenched tight nodded in agreement.

Porthos and the others moved to speak; to bring them at ease. But they would not listen, and dug their heels further into the dirt.

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose and knew d'Artagnan's course of action bordered on a tenacity born of abject fear. If Athos did not show soon; if God forbid he had not survived – he was not sure if he and Porthos would be able to handle not only their own despair – but d'Artagnan's heartache as well. For the boy's sorrow would be beyond grief; if his stance now was of any indication.

But then a raspy voice cut through the tense standoff and bellowed out, "All for one!" A beat of silence followed and when no other call was heard – they all knew Roland was lost.

d'Artagnan dipped his sword slightly and felt his knees go weak – as Porthos caught him about the arm to steady him. The earth tilted to the side, and he leaned the more into his friend's strength and knew if he had not heard Athos' call this day – he would not have survived it.

Athos limped into the clearing, holding the reins of his horse and the horse of Roland, with his body draped across her.

He watched through a haze as Leon moved from his side to meet Athos with the mount; grip the red cloak spread over his commander and lean sorrowfully into his back – the two others at his side.

d'Artagnan pried his gaze from their solemn, weary grief - blinked, and before him was Athos. Blood spotted his face; his clothes – his blue cloak. His hair slick with sweat fell over his eyes – his hat missing from his head.

He stood at attention; lifted away from Porthos' side and through a tunnel of muffled sound heard Athos address him – "Stand down, d'Artagnan."

When the order narrowed into focus; and he came back to himself - his brow creased. He stared down at his hands and realized that he still held his weapons there as if ready to continue battle. Slowly he sheathed his blade back into its scabbard and dropped his musket to the ground.

Athos reached for him; took him in his arms and enveloped him whole – pounded his back once; twice; three times and gripped him about the shoulders in a vice like hold – so tight, he briefly left his feet. They fell off balance and shuffled back and forth in an uncoordinated dance – Porthos and Aramis grinning behind them.

d'Artagnan fell into his embrace; grabbed Athos under his arms and about his shoulders – pushed his face into the warmth of his neck; and felt the man's life pulse beat rhythmically onto his cheek. He breathed in his essence with gratitude; and thanked God for answering his prayers.

Aramis and Porthos joined them and their group press warmed the chill from his heart. They had all come through this – Athos had kept his promise; he was here.

The musketeers then pulled back and graced each other with appraising eyes and warm greetings. Open smiles and in Porthos' case, tears of joy – he dismissed as dirt in his eyes – encased them all in the brotherhood of blue. Athos pride in his protégé was evident. Through his tired countenance; and distress just below the surface of his relief, he whispered, "Well done."

d'Artagnan turned then and in his field of vision saw Leon follow behind his fallen leader atop his horse; his shoulders shaking – his comrades dispensing words of commiseration.

A pain seized his heart, for he knew such grief. He bowed his head and thought on how Leon spoke with such devotion of Roland and loved him. d'Artagnan raised his head; and took in the sight of these three brave men who were his brothers. He had been lucky today.

He clasped his mentor's arm, gazed in turn to each of his friends; and smiled warmly at their concerned expressions. He then left their circle of solace to join Leon in his sorrow.

He walked shoulder to shoulder with his brother in arms; grabbed his shoulder draped in the red of the Guard and held on tight. At his back he felt his family with him and in that moment was thankful God had spared him the pain of their loss, and hoped to help Leon through his.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading; and sticking it out for the second half. I hope you enjoyed this moment. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. As always – thanks to everyone for commenting; following or favoriting these collection of moments – it means so much!


	11. Chapter 11

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter 11: Sometimes the journey of grief is a measured thing; but with the help of friends peace may come along the way- just at the right moment.

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Solace

One: Some Weeks After

Captain Treville – several well-meaning musketeers; Constance; and in addition the Inseparables had come to him and expressed their condolences. "Sorry for your loss", they had said, and in their tone, he knew they believed it – thought the words helpful; for they were good people, and it was customary to express sympathies after so recent a death.

He had listened solemnly; nodded his head – not really hearing their words; and refused to feel the weight of them in their presence. The sympathetic expressions – gazes; Constance's soft meaningful touches, only served to close his heart and trap his sorrow just beneath his rib cage – where it pained him to breathe.

They all meant well – but he didn't know them, and they hadn't known his father. They hadn't lived with him; laughed with him; toiled by his side; suffered with or loved him. And though he found peace and even a sense of belonging here in this place – he just wanted to be alone.

So he had nodded dutifully with respect and when asked if he wanted company; needed anything – perhaps to talk – he had declined all offers and walked away; breathing through the pain that stabbed through his rib cage and up to his heart.

It was solitude he needed – so that he could reflect and remember. His revenge he had achieved; now he just wanted to recollect; bring to mind what he had lost without this pressure at his chest – without weeping in view of everyone. He just needed to work through it, so he could move on.

Only the three musketeers – Aramis, Porthos and Athos – had been somewhat persistent; but he was adamant he needed or wanted nothing; and after some strong insistence on his part they pretty much let him be. Aramis and Porthos gave a final push and let it be known that if needed, they were willing to help. "Anything you need", Porthos had assured, "just ask and we'll do it. We are in your debt."

Athos seemed to take him at his word with a slight, stiff nod and let him have his way.

What comfort could they offer – really? He had gotten his father killed – alone; had held him bleeding out in the mud – alone; had carried his body back to Lupiac – alone; and had buried him alongside his mother – alone.

Alone then, he would mark this day; and let the Inseparables drift from him to go on together, out of the garrison gates, onto the streets of Paris. There, they would find relief in Athos' survival from the firing squad, with comradery and the bottle.

It was evening now, and the thought of heading back to the Bonacieux home and his temporary lodgings, did not sit well. He looked down at his hands and saw that they shook; squeezed them shut and made his way to the stables; and his beloved horse. Yes, his beautifully lean, even tempered horse – the last thread to home – the only other living thing who would remember father; their time in Lupiac – his life before.

He would seek solace here and be done with it.

So when he reached his mount within the stall – he pulled him close; rubbed his flank, then hugged her neck forcefully. The horse stepped into his embrace and pushed at the pain in his chest with his nose, as if to say, "I understand. I miss him too."

"Thank you", he whispered in his ear and pet his neck fondly.

Then he went about the business of wiping him down; brushing his mane and coat until it shown bright in the lantern light. "You are a beauty", he cooed and remembered the day his father had presented this magnificent mount to him with love in his eyes and pride in his smile. "For you", he had said, "my dear, dear boy."

The pain at his rib burrowed deeper and settled in - a dull mournful ache.

He sat heavily in the hay; gazed upon his gift and before long fell asleep alongside his last vestige of home – and dreamed of rain; mud and blood.

Jacque, the stable boy, who made his bed here and slept in the corner, burrowed down – snug in his bedroll and wondered vaguely what all the noise was about this time of night. He flipped over after a curious look see, and saw only that brash new recruit. The very same one – who not two weeks ago, had stormed into the garrison like a whirlwind - threatened musketeers; and then saved their lives. He huffed out a breath, closed his eyes to the sounds of heavy breathing - determined to join d'Artagnan in slumber.

* * *

Two: One Year After

It had been a long few months – the stress of harrowing events finally winding down, bringing some normalcy back into their lives. The garrison had fallen readily enough back into its routine of rotations; trainings; and duties.

Though the distance between he and Constance pained him, it was tempered by steady work; practice with his brothers and the pride of being a true musketeer.

So it was with trepidation that the time of year approached when sorrow pushed at his ribs – constricted his lungs and clamped around his heart like a vice. He had thought himself over his grief – but the ache of it spiked his temper; abated his appetite and left him wanting for sleep. Whereas before he had begun to think on his father with fondness; love and in happier moments – now the memory of his death hit him like a hammer; pounding away at his offense and would not give him peace.

When he closed his eyes to rest – the guilt of his murder rose up from his belly and brought back images of blood, mixed with rain and his anguish of loss.

His friends began to notice this change in him, and he knew it was time to distance himself and be alone. Then he could work it out – this torment that tortured him, and be the better for it.

Two days before the anniversary, Aramis approached with a worried expression, spread his hand across his forehead and pressed, "We have seen little of you lately d'Artagnan, what ails you?" He moved away quickly – feigned some assigned chore and called over his shoulder, "Stop coddling me Aramis- nothing is wrong", and made his escape before the man looked too closely.

Aramis stood in his wake – shaking his head with a distinct frown of worry and consternation.

One day before the anniversary; with dark smudges of bruising beneath his eyes; wound tight with the strain of attempting to avoid his friends and spare them his depressed state – Porthos caught him unawares. "Come walk with me brother", he asked – hoping to get the boy away from the garrison and whatever was bothering him. He knew Bonacieux's hold over Constance weighed on him and caused undue sadness.

Maybe a jaunt about the secret places of the city would break him out of this dark mood. Their walks had proven most jovial in the past – perhaps it would help get him to open up. But d'Artagnan had scurried away – mumbling under his breath about having other things to do.

Hands on his hips – Porthos looked after his retreating form, and then sighed with frustration and concern.

A year to the exact day, of his most painful moment – just as he moved to retreat to the stables – Athos approached and blocked his path to sanctuary. He looked down at his feet, unable to meet the man's gaze. He stepped back to go around – but Athos grabbed his shoulder with strength and would not let him pass. "You will come eat with us", he announced. His voice brooked no argument; and he winced at the display of authority.

d'Artagnan peered up into those steady, green eyes; saw the command in his face and could not refuse. So he swallowed his pain; nodded in assent and let Athos guide him through the busy streets of Paris to the Wren, his hand ever present and heavy at his spine.

There at the usual table – to the back; secluded somewhat from the throng of night revelers, sat Aramis and Porthos waiting with food and wine.

He sat reluctantly; but over time, relaxed in their good company; ate some bread; drank a little wine and even smiled at Porthos' bombastic humor. The crushing ache in his chest lifted a little, where upon he took in a deep breath and was glad of such good friends.

He regarded them closely, and knew that he was not the only one who had suffered greatly this year. Porthos – whose experience with Bonnaire, dredged up memories of his mother, slavery; and a father he did not know. Aramis – whose mind lay besieged by the horrors of Savoy; its aftermath and some action he was not privy. And Athos – who Milady's ghost relentlessly haunted over a five year period, only to hurt him now more in resurrection than she ever did in "death".

He raised his cup to them and toasted, "Brothers." They smiled; laughed; raised their cups in return and drank into the night.

Once returned to the garrison, they clapped each other's backs and went their separate ways. d'Artagnan watched them depart and once sure he was completely alone, headed to the stables where his mount snorted and met him halfway in the stall with bent neck – and patiently waited for his greeting.

Jacque stared out from beneath his blanket; and settled down deeper into the straw when he saw that it was only Monsieur d'Artagnan. He promptly turned his back to get some much needed rest. That ornery beast was the luckiest animal alive – he thought – as he floated down into sleep.

d'Artagnan grinned at; then hugged his horse fondly – wiped him down until his hair shined in the light of the lantern, then sat heavily in the hay. When he leaned back against the bale to take in her beauty – the vision of his father appeared and the pain at his rib increased.

He pressed down there to bury it deep, and then fell asleep – the pounding of rain echoing in his ears.

* * *

Three: Two Years After

Monsieur Bonacieux was dead. His last words – spoken with spite and hate – were a curse on he and Constance; which had him reeling in guilt and self-recrimination. How would he ever get past this or live with the man's venomous loathing, persecuting them from the grave? An assassin had taken a man's life - for him - because – she liked him.

Bonacieux's cold, dead eyes fixed on him; staring at him from the beyond, only served to remind him more of the day's harsh significance.

This whole turn of events only seemed to darken his mood even more – and caused the pain at his ribs and chest to accelerate with every breath.

It was that time again – time to retreat before his grief swallowed him whole. The nightly dreams of death; his loss of appetite and his quick temper had returned with a vengeance. No one could talk to him without being snapped at; Serge could not cajole him to eat; his friends could not distract him with cards – wine or companionship.

Today was the day and he just needed to be alone – to push it away – press it down deeper – be rid of it; and come out the better. That's the way it worked for him. Everyone just needed to leave him be.

So as the sun dipped; and darkness descended, d'Artagnan – his mood foul and stormy - made his way quietly to the stables for his annual visit and grooming with his horse, who greeted him warmly enough. But tonight her overture twisted the knife at his ribs and he stepped away - unable to take in a descent breath. At his side stood his father – pride and love in his eyes handing the reins out to him.

He shook the vision clear and paced the stable barn back and forth – wringing his hands in agitation. The sound of thunder clapped and rain pounded on the roof – but when he looked out into the yard, there was no rain. The ground was dusty dry; the sky clear – no clouds to speak of – the stars out in full force.

He covered his ears to block out the unwanted reverberations. Was he going mad?

A crash of phantom thunder shook the ground and he felt his body tremble. His father then appeared in a flash of lightening; bleeding out in the rain.

He closed his eyes and screamed over the cacophony of noise rattling around in his skull, "It's not real!" he yelled at the top of his lungs to blot it out. When the noise of pelting rain would not adhere to his command to "Stop!" he reached for the pitchfork sticking out from the hay and pounded it against the walls, the railings – anything to drown it out.

The pain in his heart compressed tighter and he screamed again – unable to bear it. Tears, held back for two years, escaped and slid down his face uninhibited – mixed with mucus and spittle.

Jacque – asleep in his corner – bolted awake in terror – a witness to d'Artagnan's outburst; and wanton destruction. He hastily got to his feet and raced from the stables, afraid for his life and ran – calling for help.

Within moments – Aramis, Porthos and Athos stood at the wide doorway in varying states of redress. They looked in as d'Artagnan bashed the pitchfork into the walls – upsetting tackle; knocking over saddles; spilling over buckets of grain. Horses unsettled by the racket swayed in their stalls and pushed against wood in an attempt to bolt. Their snorts and hooves; beating in unison with d'Artagnan's willful demolition.

Aramis called out to him – hoping to gain his attention; but that only got a pitchfork dangerously close to his head – where upon he ducked just in time not to receive a blow to the temple.

Porthos circled around to his rear – trying to find an opening – to perhaps wrestle him down, then the others could wrest the weapon away. However, d'Artagnan was quick and swung the fork in a circle – yelling out to them, "Leave me alone!"

Athos moved forward – his hands spread out in supplication- advancing carefully and with measured steps. d'Artagnan hesitated at his advance and frowned slightly through his tears and blurry vision. Porthos saw his chance; pounced – and brought d'Artagnan down from behind. When they hit the ground, the pitchfork flew from his grasp and Athos kicked it away out of reach.

d'Artagnan cried out a wild, keening wail; then kicked, punched and pulled at Porthos' grasp about his waist. "Let me go!" he growled through clenched teeth – his strength formidable; not beyond scratching and clawing to get away.

Porthos held on as Aramis dove down and pinned his kicking legs to the ground; a stray kick catching his chin. d'Artagnan felt the vice like grip of grief about his chest break free and screamed in painful agony as he relived that terrible moment of his father's last breath. "Please…Stay…. Don't Go!" he sobbed; his torment a living thing as he squirmed and fought to free himself.

Athos dropped to his knees – grabbed hold of his wrists and pressed them together. He moved in behind and maneuvered the boy between his legs; d'Artagnan's head resting at his chest. And the three held on for dear life.

After some time – feeling d'Artagnan's energy wane - Porthos released his hold – breathing hard. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled down the sides of his face and then pooled in the hallow crevice of his neck. He wiped the sweat from his forehead; and prayed that this heartbreaking episode was coming to an end.

Athos nodded to Aramis – who then let go of his legs and rolled away, his energy spent. He lay on his back; chest heaving – a hand pressed to his sore jaw.

d'Artagnan's agonized cries continued as he called to his father to not go; that he was sorry; to not leave him alone.

Athos leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Hush boy; you are not alone. We are here."

And he kept up the soft, soothing litany until d'Artagnan's cries diminished to soft pleas; then murmured apologies; to finally silence. His tears ended and he stared exhausted out into nothing – his eyelids blinking a sluggish, deliberate cadence. Athos lifted his unresisting body up further into his embrace and gently rocked him back and forth – letting the rhythm bring calmness and hushed repose.

"Two years he held this in", Aramis pronounced in amazement. He sat up; took d'Artagnan's hand in his and rubbed his knuckles in soothing circles. Porthos reached out and gripped his knee – sliding closer to give needed comfort.

d'Artagnan let out a tired, numbing sigh; and felt the pain beneath his rib released. He looked up at Athos - with sincere gratitude, who wiped the tears dry from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, then pet the top of his head with care.

His eyes blinked heavy with fatigue – he relaxed into Athos' arms and fell into a quiet, serene place. His last sensations before drifting away further, were of Aramis holding his hand; Porthos patting his knee and Athos' fingers in his hair- giving him permission to - "Rest".

So he let go – and let the sound of Athos beating heart against his ear lull him down, and the steady breathing of Aramis and Porthos nearby guide him to a dreamless sleep.

Jacque stood warily in the corner where he kept his blanket and spoke up, "Is he going to be alright?" concern evident in his voice, and the stiffness in his body.

Athos nodded, "Yes – he will be." And Jacque slid down onto his blanket to wait.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading this moment. Though it is a sad moment of solace, I hope you enjoyed it. I feel that the series is not really able to spend much time on moments like these – Porthos' search for his identity; Aramis' trauma after Savoy; Athos' self-destruction upon passing sentence on his own wife. And then there is d'Artagnan dealing with the murder of his father. I have read many wonderful stories here in this fandom that deal with these moments with such a deft touch. I hope I did this moment justice. Please let me know what you think! Your thoughts and comments mean so much.


	12. Chapter 12

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter 12: Athos is undecided about the future; but not where family is concerned.

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Choices

Athos remained still, stoic and alone among many. The buoyant sounds of garrison life swept by him unnoticed – his focus cast inwards – his mind invaded by thoughts of her.

His place here – the table beneath the stairs; facing out toward the yard – was where he did his best thinking; concocted many a daring plan; and made his most important decisions. It was here, at this table where he first encountered Aramis' rakish smile as he swaggered suavely toward him. On the bench across from him, was his first handshake with Porthos – introduced to him by Treville – his hands strong as they shook his with a genuine overture of good will.

And here in this very seat, is where he looked across at d'Artagnan – the boy who had stormed into his life like a tornado – and thanked him for saving his life.

And not so long ago – she made her appearance here – there on the stairs; her stance determined. Her raven hair, down about her shoulders; her cool, wild eyes challenging his; and the slight lift of her lips that betrayed a hint of dangerous mischief – stuttered his heart and gave him pause.

Though around him swirled the controlled chaos of musketeer comings and goings – he did not hear it; see it or sense it.

For in this moment, she filled every crevice of his being – till it swelled his pores to bursting; causing his skin to tingle with pain; scorn or was it anticipation?

Memories of her, those tinted with rose colored glass; and then later, shattered into fragmented bloody pieces, assailed him and pushed feelings he had long suppressed to the surface. The thought of her made him dizzy, uncomfortable and unbelievably uncertain.

He did not understand these emotions towards her, and they were driving him to distraction.

He folded his hands on the table and pressed them tight together, to keep them from shaking. He wanted a drink – badly – but he didn't need it. He had promised himself that there would be no more of that self-indulgent, destructive behavior - selfish behavior that only led to inert melancholia and worried his brothers.

What he needed instead was a clear head – so that he could think more objectively of the past, understand the yearning he felt for her now, and consider her proposal for the future.

These past months – he had been hard pressed to think much of anything. Instinct was what he and his brothers had lived on. Instinct in battle; trust in one another; and love for country was what had sustained them. So now, that the fate of France had been decided; Rochefort's menace thwarted – he could be still; quiet – take stock of his life and perhaps look ahead.

He bowed his head to contemplate what that would look like – the future – with her. He twirled his thumbs and wondered what he really felt – for love it was not. And if not love – then what was it?

He could not deny the physical attraction. She was a stunning woman; and he wanted her. In some ways he needed her. Needed her level of "against all odds" fierceness; will to survive and her fortitude. Her loyalty to self and single minded preservation – he understood. That she extended such loyalty to him – surprised him and gave him some hope for her character and true intentions towards her offer of a life together.

Without her extended olive branch – he wasn't so sure they would have lived through Rochefort's madness. She had helped to save not only Aramis' life; but France as well and he was forever grateful.

Athos closed his eyes to the garrison and conjured up her image – standing there in that darkened, secret place – streaks of light from a single candle flickering across her face. He could still feel her warm breath at his neck – her trembling limbs beneath the folds of her gown and her heart beating erratically against his leather.

He had fallen into her essence and she was Anne again - his passionate, zealous Anne. But when they parted – breathless and weak – she was Milady; the passion and zealous nature, still there – but changed. She had stumbled from his arms – vulnerable on shaky legs- appreciation for his desire evidenced by her low moan and unsteady gait.

That he could affect her so – brought a sense of pleasure; satisfaction and then pain for the torture they seemed to inflict on one another – even with the gesture of a kiss.

The longing for her ached in his bones and even now, in this moment, as musketeers yelled out good naturedly to one another around him – he could feel her heated presence.

He opened his eyes and considered the past. At one point in his life – he had loved her completely; blindly and on faith. That even though he had not truly known her – their love could survive anything. She had made him promise to love her – no matter what may come; and he had done so without reservation.

Looking back on it now – deep down – he knew of her duplicity; could feel it hovering between them; but did not care. She claimed love; he believed her and gave her his heart. He believed her above everyone's reservations; but when it mattered most, would not remove the blinders and see Thomas as she knew him. He could see it now – removed from the sorrow by time and experience that Thomas, his beloved brother was a man of poor judgement; and low morals – who would threaten a woman to have his way.

He had refused to recognize the flaws – only willing to see his little brother; the boy who had followed him around the estate like a puppy; who he cherished and thought had loved him. Though she had struck the fatal blow; Thomas' death was surely blood on his hands.

It had been a weakness in him – to see the good in everyone – Anne; Thomas; Catherine – himself. That weakness had been the ruin of them all – a hard lesson learned that skewed his way of life for five years – and now?

What was he to think? That she could change? He knew better – she was who she was – lovely; complicated and deadly. Would that he turn back time and be that foolish young man who loved her above everyone else? No – it was not possible. He was no longer so optimistic a person, and could never love a woman with such abandon again.

Out across the yard – breaking through his revere – he heard the laughter of youthful unrestraint; and spied d'Artagnan and Constance walking his way. They strode side by side; hand in hand – their eyes locked on one another – oblivious to all the commotion around them. They were consumed by each other.

He chuckled softly with a tinge of sadness and fondness, for he knew that feeling well. When one laughed – the other smiled; when one touched – the other kissed; when one breathed in – the other exhaled.

Yes – passion such as this – for him, was lost forever.

Suddenly, the two stood in his wake, and looked to him with anticipation – eyes wide; shining and happy.

After a brief, awkward moment of silence, d'Artagnan frowned and asked, "Have you heard me Athos? What do you say?" with a worried tenor to his voice.

Athos blinked and brought the two into clearer focus. He had missed something said by the look of things, "Say again d'Artagnan – you have caught me day dreaming."

d'Artagnan sighed with relief and his face eased back into joy, " You are the first to know Athos, I have asked Constance to marry me and she…"

"…has agreed wholeheartedly!" Constance continued, standing to her tip toes and swinging d'Artagnan's hand to her lips.

Athos noted her love for his brother radiated deep from within. Adoration shown bright on her face; her dimples creased deep; her cheeks flushed pink and her bangs bounced about her forehead in time with her enthusiastic nod. How lucky this boy was, he thought.

He raised an eyebrow – not surprised by the announcement; only that it had taken this long. He nodded his head their way in acknowledgment and replied with sincere regard, "Congratulations" and offered them to take a seat – with a gesture to the bench.

The two scrambled to sit before him – sill holding hands and leaned forward with eager expressions. "We wish for you to stand with us Athos", d'Artagnan began in a rush.

"To walk me down the aisle – to present me to my husband", Constance continued in a flurry – her voice catching with emotion.

Athos considered carefully d'Artagnan and Constance before him; their request more than a friendly gesture. They were asking him to be a part of their little family of two. They stared across the table at him – hands gripped tight together, waiting for his answer – as if life depended on it.

He took a deep breath and felt the anxiety of earlier thoughts of Anne dissipate; fade into the background and be replaced by the honor of this moment. He looked then to his brother, whose gaze peered into his; and without hesitation answered, "Of course."

d'Artagnan leaped to his feet; leaned over and reverently kissed Constance on her lips. She hummed; then laughed in his embrace – held his cheeks between her small hands – so that his lips lingered all the more.

When he pulled back from her, breathless from lack of air – he turned to Athos and smiled. "Thank you brother", he gasped and reached out across the table to give a quick squeeze of his forearm. Then he was away – already to the yard, "I will go tell the others!" he called over his shoulder and raced off in search of Aramis and Porthos.

Athos watched until d'Artagnan bounded from his sight; and knew Constance did the same. When he was gone from view; she turned to him and held out her hand; her smile warm – her gaze open; inviting him to be her brother. He took hold of her offered hand; squeezed tight and heard her whisper, "Thank you."

He rubbed her knuckles gently; thought of his Anne – his past – the future; and was glad to realize that no matter what choices presented themselves; or what his decisions might be – d'Artagnan and Constance were a part of what was to come; and this brought him peace.

He brought her knuckles to his lips and brushed over them a brief kiss. "No, thank you", he whispered back.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this moment between Athos and Constance. I always wondered what that conversation looked like when Athos was asked to walk Constance down the aisle. I'm hoping my interpretation proved agreeable. Please review and let me know what you think. As always – thanks to everyone who has read; reviewed; followed or favorited this story. Your comments have been read over, and over, and over….. You get the point! Thank you.


	13. Chapter 13

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Thirteen: Dreams come true; however the declaration of war brings heartache.

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Chapter Thirteen: Promised Vows

He had never prayed so hard or with such fever in his life, as he had this past hour. That God would hear him now, and grant the blessing of time and compassion was all he hoped for. The terror in his heart had reached such proportions that it almost overrode his joy – almost. For though he had known battle – he had not experienced war; and the thought of it frightened him. But not enough to negate the rapture he held enfolded in his arms.

He sighed deeply, caressed her warm shoulder; and tenderly pinned a stray auburn strand of hair behind her ear.

War was upon them – just declared; and he feared for their future. He feared for his life, the life of his brothers; her survival; France and the unknown that came with this campaign fraught with deadly conflict and struggle. Peace had been abandoned to make room for bloody argument; combat and melee. This war would put an agonizing hold on his life.

He kissed his wife's forehead through sweat, curled bangs and she squeezed him tighter; though she slept on. He felt the tickle of her breath at his side and ran his fingers lightly along the smoothness of her arm. She shivered slightly, so he pulled the thin sheet over her bare shoulders and pulled her in close.

Hours – they had been married for mere hours; and his heart soared with love; happiness and devotion. He had promised before God and his family to be at her side always – to love her until only death separated them.

Only, he had not been prepared for war to be the culprit. He had thought to cleave unto her until old age, when in its natural course, death would seize him from her side. Whereupon they would meet again on the other side – content they had spent a life time together.

Instead – he was to leave her on the morrow; and did not know when he was to see her again – if he was to see her again- their lifetime of hopes, contentment and grief– perhaps compressed into the here and now.

He frowned at the unfairness of it all, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

They had been through so much – conquered so many obstacles to get to this blissful moment. To be married; to share his life with her – had been his ultimate dream. Now fulfilled – the nightmare of war hovered and threatened to derail all of their efforts; to take what they had worked so hard for away – to bring them strife, hardship and worry.

How could life be so wonderful and so cruel in the same breath? How could God gift him so and then wrench his heart within an hour? How was he to go on – to be without her?

He touched her lips softly with his finger and stared down into her beautiful face – determined to remember this moment of their joining as husband and wife forever.

He wished for her smile to be always etched in his memory as she strode with pride down the aisle, on the arm of his best friend, to meet him as his wife. He could see her now in his mind's eye, how her eyes had sparkled; that he had gasped at her loveliness; his heart in his throat, which caused him to swallow convulsively with nervous energy. She had laughed aloud with delight when his jaw dropped in awe at the sight of her; as she made her way to his side and held firm to his hand in matrimony.

His face flushed even now, as he recalled how warm his cheeks were when she stared into his eyes and said – "I do". That she loved him – had said yes and would be with him always – stunned him. And when it was his turn to give his oath; to place the ring on her finger, his hands had shook and he had stuttered over the words – in such a rush to be done and kiss his bride.

When they had finally kissed to seal their commitment – she had giggled; her lips pressed against his teeth and playfully bit his lower lip. Porthos had clapped his back; shook his hand and kissed her cheek. He had given words of congratulations, but for the life of him, d'Artagnan couldn't remember what was said. At that moment, he had only eyes and ears for her.

Here together – in his small, untidy room – they had lay together and loved slow, in rhythmic sync and with passion. They had been unwilling to hurry – to make this moment fleeting; swift or brief – instead vying for languid pleasure that left them both breathless and exhausted. For this could possibly be their last moments of lovemaking together for some time to come.

He looked out the window – saw darkness still there; and thanked God for answering this one prayer – which was that time would stand still and let him drink in the glory of her; to see her, study her and really consider her presence. So that he could take this picture, as she was now, peaceful in his arms; and carry it with him into uncertain times.

He felt her stir, and burrow closer into his hip – her heart beating steady at his rib cage.

When he met her gaze; her eyes were pooled with unshed tears. Her lips quivered, but she smiled through it. "I will not cry", she promised and sat up to regard him closely.

She pushed his damp hair from his face, as hers cascaded down about her shoulders, and traced her fingers across his brow – down his jawline – to his lips; and over his throat. "You are beautiful", she whispered – then kissed his ear, his eyes and his lips.

The gentleness of her aroused his love and a tear left the corner of his eye and tracked a thin, single line down his cheek to his neck. "I will love you always", she vowed – her voice catching with emotion.

He turned to his side then to face her – their foreheads touching as they shared the single pillow and breathed in each other's air. "I don't want to leave you", he confessed. "I have just promised to honor you, and be at your side for a lifetime and now I must go."

Constance sighed and cupped his cheek in her small hand. "I am with you Charles d'Artagnan no matter where you are – or what circumstances you find yourself in. Just think to this moment, and know I am waiting here. This war will not take you from me."

d'Artagnan took her then in his arms and together they watched as the sun rose, her rays penetrating the darkened room with streaks of light, and dismissed the moon and shadows to yesterday.

She then nestled close; placed her ear at his beating heart – and murmured, "Love me."

* * *

As he mounted his horse, and the musketeers readied themselves to ride away – d'Artagnan watched with an aching heart as his wife wrapped her arms about her waist to hold in the warmth of their last embrace. She stood with her back straight, and a smile plastered to her lips – but he could see that no joy reached her eyes.

He turned his horse in a circle to go back. To garner one more kiss; one more declaration of love – one more moment of solace in her arms. To feel her hand at his neck – to hear her laugh in his ear – once more was all he needed.

Only, Athos reached across for his reins and held him fast – knowing that to prolong the inevitable would only serve painful. "I promise you", he declared – his voice strong with certainty; as his horse pranced with agitation. "You will see her here again."

d'Artagnan searched the face of the man he respected above all others; and saw there his resolve. If Athos promised – then he would move heaven and earth to make it so. d'Artagnan nodded, regained control of his reins, turned then and waved to his wife – who stood to her toes and blew him a kiss through trembling lips.

As her spirit drew close – he snatched the offered adieu from the air and deposited it to his heart; held it there fast as they departed through the gates –and then some – afraid to let this piece of her go.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. Please review, and let me know what you think. I tend to go a little overboard when it comes to these two – so I hope it's not too much! As always – your comments are like precious gifts – just waiting to be opened! Also – thank you to everyone who has read; reviewed; favorited or are following these moments. It means a great deal! Happy New Year!


	14. Chapter 14

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: The peril and challenges of war have our musketeers yearning for home and connection to loved ones. Correspondence of love; friendship and hidden desire, bridge the gap between risk and well being – offering the possibility of peace and homecoming.

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I would like to send out a special "Thank you" to CharisM, who has so graciously allowed me to take her concept of war time letter correspondence between Athos and Milady – and to run with it, in my own direction - for the purpose of this moment. If you haven't already – please read her work 'Currents of Action' – from which I have derived this idea. It is a wonderful, wonderful piece writing; and I hope this moment of 'Correspondence' does justice to her concept.

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Chapter Fourteen: Correspondence

Athos stood at the opening of his makeshift tent with coffee tin in hand. The cool night air brushed lightly against his cheeks and for a moment he was far from this place – lost amid memories of his youth; fanciful dreams; solid friendships – and Serge's good, strong coffee back home at the garrison.

It felt good to think about something other than – here; to escape this melee, if only for a brief moment. A fleeting image of her mischievous grin slipped by his carefully stacked barricade and gave him pause to recollect. He marveled at how such thoughts of her did not bring him pain, only a happy sort of peace, to admire her beauty; and remember what wonderfully, joyful occasions they once shared.

Camp noises of fretting horses; cook dispensing the evening meal; and moans emanating from a nearby tent where the injured were cared for – interrupted his contented musings and brought him back to the here and now. He placed his brick back in its place - frowned down into his cup at the brown, swirling sludge of liquid and thought if nothing else, the strength and horrid taste of it would keep him going with no need of rest for quite a while.

He then looked out on his men – who sat about the fire; on tattered blankets – fallen tree trunks and before their own leaning, cloth shelters. His insides warmed with affection as he witnessed how they gave each other their steadfast company. All for one – even, no - especially, in this muck and mire.

It had been a rough few days; and with darkness descended - and orders already dispensed, it gave them little time to wind down – to accept what was; grieve their losses; celebrate their successes and prepare for what was yet to come.

The chatter among the musketeers was low, but amiable – cups of coffee passed between them, along with hard bread and cheese. Meat had been difficult to come by in these woods – as the noise of a moving regiment tended to scare off game. But cook had been resourceful and some time ago – had found a way to bake bread, trap rabbit; and somehow procure cheese – without much mold to speak of.

Athos stood tall – his pride in these men evident in his stance and stalwart manner. Their unwavering love for France, devotion to duty and faith in his leadership – threatened to overwhelm him day to day. He could not let them down – for they were the best of men.

He only wished he could do more – provide better provisions – more food; warmer cloaks; thicker blankets – replace worn boots. The horses needed more grain; hooves to be shorn … - the list of needs went on and on.

As luck would have it – the weather was favorable and he was grateful for this bit of good fortune.

Athos rubbed the back of his neck and shoulders to smooth out the knots forming there. The tense pressure of command had slowly but surely become his way of life; and its effects pained his muscles, decreased his appetite and paralyzed his lungs – making it hard to breathe deep and even. The loss of life chipped away at his psyche bit by bit and left his spirit a battered thing.

As he sipped from his cup of coffee, and scrunched his nose at its bitter taste, he scanned the faces of his regiment. And what he saw there, staring back at him, was reflected his own image of weariness; hunger and a few grimaces of pain.

Their most recent campaign had been successful, but came at a high cost. By his count, they had sadly lost two musketeers – whose letters of condolence he had just completed. Heartbreaking and poignant letters of pride he had painstakingly written to mothers who would not see or embrace their boys again.

The flowered expanse of fields here in the French countryside would hold them close in their stead. He had chosen the field himself – laden with purple and white wild flowers that swayed in time with brief gusts of wind – that flowed down from the mountains beyond.

That it remained untouched by violence had been a sign to bring them here to rest. It had been a somber moment alongside their graves – one in which he had no words; and none were expected. For all could see how sorrow constricted his throat; and left him speechless. Each musketeer then instead, bowed their heads in silence, lost in his own thoughts of remembrance.

He sighed deeply, now at the memory; considered his men's tired countenances; dirt encrusted faces, grimy skin – soiled uniforms; and above all things, wished he could give them more time. More time to rest; recuperate – reflect on their loved ones.

When he looked out more closely among them, he could see that many sat close to the flames with shared vials of ink putting quill to paper – reaching out to home. He looked to the black sky and knew they had some hours yet. At early light, they would be leaving this place to begin again the hard duty of war.

Athos placed his cup at his feet and walked toward d'Artagnan, who sat hunched over; and bent low to paper splayed across his thigh – squinting in the orange tinged light – the flames casting a warm glow across his features. Though he could see beneath his eyes bruised dark smudges of fatigue and that his eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion – his enthusiasm for life still filtered through. He was glad of this – for he had feared the boy's innate love for life would be extinguished by all they had seen and done in the name of France and by his command.

But he was still there – still his d'Artagnan – strong willed, determined; and quick to laugh. This is what kept him going.

As he stepped closer – he could better see the concentration on his face; the care he took with his penmanship; the tip of his tongue visible at his lips – the letters straight and steady. So – he surmised – a correspondence to Constance then.

He leaned over and gently gripped d'Artagnan's uninjured shoulder – so as not to startle or cause undue pain; and was pleased to see his face transform from furrowed brow and tense lips to a brief smile of welcome that reached his eyes.

Inwardly – his heart skipped a beat. Yesterday had been a very close call. To see d'Artagnan felled from his horse – down in the mud; blood at his shoulder – for a moment still – unmoving, had been torture. Beside him one moment, then down the next – the thought of him perhaps gone, had sent him into a predatory tailspin. But then Porthos was miraculously by their side; pulled d'Artagnan to his feet and they had fought on – together as always.

His heart, his soul, his mind had stopped in that moment – his breath robbed from his lungs – until he saw him stand. For an instant – he had become something he did not recognize. What would he do – he wondered – if his brothers were to fall? What could he say to Constance? How would he continue?

He released those thoughts – grabbed d'Artagnan's neck and fondly pat his back. "Give Constance my regard?" he asked, with no hint of worry; fear or anxiety. He would not show it.

d'Artagnan nodded, "Of course", and returned to his letter, as if planning a covert operation.

He clapped d'Artagnan on the back once again for good measure – to feel the warmth of him; and continued on with his rounds – determined to see; speak to and encourage in some way each man here.

Tomorrow they would face much.

* * *

d'Artagnan leaned over his paper once more – smoothed out the wrinkled creases and with deliberate precision of form began his letter:

 ** _My Dear, Dear Wife –_**

 ** _I sit here, close to the flame for light, to write and give you news. Athos has just passed me, and sends his regards. He is well – but the mantle of command weighs heavy; and we do all we can to help lighten the load. I try my best to not give him cause for concern, as he has much on his mind._**

d'Artagnan peered up and gazed across the flames to his great friend Porthos, remembered with relief how he had come to his aid – perhaps even saved his life – and continued:

 _ **Porthos is ever near, and though he is worn out – he keeps me good company and from dwelling too hard on the difficult things we see and do here. He has no shortage of stories and endless humorous accounts that keep us all amused at such outlandish antics. If only Aramis were with us to hear such tales – he would surely say they were in the realm of make believe.**_

 ** _We miss Aramis very much, you know; and his words of wisdom. We could use his comforting spirit now as today we have lain to rest Lemont and Monroe who you may remember as kind, brave and most helpful to you and our Queen while watching over the dauphin._**

 ** _However, even with this – our spirits are somewhat lifted – as this last campaign - without saying too much, was a success._**

 ** _It brings us hope that this wretched war will soon end – and we can make our way back home._**

 ** _I haven't time to write a lengthy letter – for soon we ready ourselves for what comes next. But I wanted to be sure, that when this letter finds you, it finds you content in the knowledge that I love you beyond life itself. Tu me manques. I cannot live without you._**

 ** _It is my deepest hope that we see each other soon – for our last visit with one another was too short and only served to have me long for you the more. It helps to know that you are safe at home where no harm can reach you._**

d'Artagnan cast his gaze forlornly to the pristine sky dotted with stars and rubbed absently at his slight wound. He would not reveal all, but perhaps he should reassure her:

 ** _Constance, I implore you to not worry about me. This war is a hard thing, and has marked me, but it is nothing I cannot overcome – for you come to me nightly in my dreams and tell me that all is well; that you love me and we will be together again. I believe you wholeheartedly, and tell you so each night._**

 ** _Please write soon of ordinary things, small things that bring you joy throughout your day. Tell me of our home – what repairs are needed; of your garden – how fares Serge and the playful antics of the dauphin._**

 ** _I see you waiting at the door Constance; your smile beseeching me to hurry in. I am ready and eager to come home._**

 ** _Love, your devoted husband,_**

 ** _Charles_**

d'Artagnan gazed down at his letter – folded, pressed and then placed it – dirt and sweat stained – into the envelope, addressed to his wife. He kissed her written name and felt her presence all about him.

* * *

Athos made his way toward Porthos, and found him also with quill to paper – sitting beneath a tree, his head bowed low to see; large hands scrawling with ease and leisure. He was glad to see a slight smile upon his lips.

He stopped before his friend, and could not help but to smile also. "Who is it that brings you such cheer?" he asked "as I would like to thank them myself."

Porthos stared up from his musings and met his Captain's smile full on – happy to see a respite from his daily anguish. "It is the Lady Alice I send correspondence to this hour. I will gladly give her your message."

Athos eyebrow rose to his hair line. "This hour is it?" he chuckled, as Porthos lifted his other letters up to be counted.

"See here" he bellowed "hour one, there is Aramis – hour two, Flea and now – this hour?" he shrugged with good humor.

"I see", Athos bowed slightly from the waist, "I leave you to it then", and moved on to speak with another.

Porthos placed finger to forehead, saluted his Captain a good night and resumed his position to write:

 ** _My Dear Lady Alice –_**

 ** _It may be presumptuous of me to send you greetings, but I thought of you today and your image would not let me go. I am hopeful that you are well, and that this war has not touched you too much, as the hardships we endure here are difficult. I wish not to think of you in dire straits, only in good health and humor._**

Porthos peered up from his writings and saw around him the dirt, mud, and pain of battle. He looked inward then and imagined her lying at his side – warm and content with great hopes for the future; talk of travel and friendship. With renewed energy, he continued:

 ** _At this very moment, in my mind's eye – I see your beauty; your lovely smile; and can sense your kind heart reaching out to me._**

 ** _Thinking of you brings me much needed peace of mind. I do realize that even when this war has ended and we have returned to our normal way of life – you will have moved on , and perhaps not think on our brief but exciting interlude– as we have most certainly parted on good and friendly terms._**

Porthos paused and watched intensely across the flames as d'Artagnan kissed his letter; Athos spoke quietly to the men; and each musketeer by voice or deed seemed to have reached back toward home and loved ones for a moment of calm tranquility.

 _ **However, it is my wish – dear Alice – that if we should somehow meet again – you know how important to me it was our brief time together. I have needed good memories to think on; happier times to keep my spirits buoyed; and you have given me this.**_

 _ **My Captain wishes to thank you for putting me in such a good mood.**_

 _ **With Sincere Regard, Your friend always,**_

 _ **Porthos du Vallon**_

Porthos leaned back and smiled down at his efforts. Having good friends and family near and far was what would get him through this war, which not only sapped his body but also his mind of strength and vigor . He then folded his letter neatly; placed it in the envelope and added it to his pile.

He lifted another blank paper and wondered if Constance would appreciate some news of her husband.

* * *

His rounds completed, Athos sat now alone in his tent – a single candle illuminating uneven light over his words of condolences. He read them twice over to be sure the content brought comfort and imparted the bravery of his two fallen musketeers.

Sealed now – he set them aside to read the third – one of many letters he had written covertly to his wife. He pulled her silk glove from his waistband and rubbed it between calloused fingers – the softness of it bringing to mind the smoothness of her skin, and lightness of her lips; the full image of her finally coming to him in a wave of desire.

He leaned close to the candle, tilted his letter just so, and re-read it with solicitude.

 ** _Anne,_**

 ** _We have buried two. I am weary. But in my darkest moments, think of you among tall grass, with flowers in your hair. It is my intention to see you again._**

 ** _Olivier_**

Upon reading the last sentence – he creased the paper with care, placed it in the envelope – her name etched elegantly on the face – no destination noted. He then sealed and placed it in the small wooden box at his elbow. In the box sat several other sealed envelopes all addressed to her – Anne – ready; waiting to be opened.

Since day one of this endeavor, he had taken to writing her – baring his thoughts; sharing moments of weakness; snatches of joy – the heartaches of war; and memories of their youth.

If he did not survive this – the box, as part of his effects would go to d'Artagnan – which at his behest would send them to her. Only then would she read and know of his true sentiments.

He closed the lid firmly and stood to his feet. Her glove, he put in its proper place for safe keeping, at his side – grabbed up his letters of condolences and went to find Gerard.

As he stepped from his tent – pink hues blushed and streaked across the sky ready to give way and welcome the day. Within the hour it would be time to leave this place and prepare for battle. He strode with purpose to Gerard, who held out his pouch – overflowing with ardent, sincere messages to loved ones.

He added his weight of letters to the carry all and watched as d'Artagnan, Porthos and others did the same. He reached for Gerard's hand and shook it with strength. "God speed", he relayed; and stood with his brothers – shoulder to shoulder - as they watched him mount up and ride off in haste with the rising sun.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this. Please leave me a review, and let me know what you think! Also, I want to be sure to thank everyone for your lovely reviews for chapter 13. I attempted to respond to each of you – but am unsure if you received them due to the glitch here on the site. Also – thank you to those of you who have favorited; and follow. Your support of these moments has been a gift!

Once again, my thanks to CharisM!

* Tu me manques translates to – I am missing you.*


	15. Chapter 15

A Moment

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Fifteen: As the hour before a mission draws near – our musketeers share a moment of love, allegiance and brotherhood.

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Alyslee asked if I would consider continuing Chapter Fourteen. I have given it a try with one more correspondence. Please let me know what you think!

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Chapter Fifteen: Into the Unknown

Athos watched with some apprehension as Gerard leaned over the neck of his horse; pressed his heels to flank and raced forward toward the woods – headed in the direction of home. The satchel of letters bounced at his side as he lifted his arm in farewell; the look on his face, one of fierce determination that relayed how nothing would get in his way. He would deliver their messages of affection; friendship and devotion. His mission would be a success.

A smattering of "good luck"; returned waves and forlorn looks accompanied him to the tree line.

Beside him, shoulder to shoulder, he felt his brothers release twin sighs – as if thankful a piece of them would make it back to Paris, and their loved ones- a piece of them that was tangible, solid and real. They had every faith in Gerard. He would make it home.

He could see it in all of his men more clearly now. It was evident in their straight backs; hopeful gazes and upturned lips that home is where they longed to be. Back home, in the arms of a wife – kissed by a child – embraced by a mother or laughing with a friend – in the confines of peace and well-being.

And soon – a part of them would be there. Today, they were going home in spirit and through the written word. They would speak to family of their hopes, fears and plans for the future. And they were the better for it.

He looked to the sky and saw that a dusky gray with streaks of gold had replaced the purple, pink hue of pre-dawn. A new day was about to begin – one of uncertainty that brought a shiver down his spine, which had nothing to do with the cool morning air.

As Gerard disappeared from sight – he sent out a silent prayer that his journey would be safe and uneventful. He turned then to his regiment – all waiting to hear his orders – and called out, "Let's eat; and break camp. We head out within the hour."

d'Artagnan touched his shoulder; squeezed and announced, "Then I will fetch your meal Captain.", and hurried off before he could say otherwise. For he was not hungry, only eager to get moving; realize his strategy and bring his men home in more than words on paper.

"He is resolved to keep you on your feet – that one – yes?" Porthos surmised with a grin – a twinkle still in his eye; never gone missing or extinguished; even after all they had witnessed.

Athos nodded; appreciated the overture of warmth and followed d'Artagnan's moving figure as he wound his way through men pulling down tents; feeding horses; rolling up bedding – until he made his way to the chow line and grabbed up three tin plates.

While there in line, he observed fondly the way he talked; laughed and listened to each man around him with undivided attention. Athos wondered at his enthusiasm, energy level and sense of purpose - a living contagious thing among the men which seemed to lift their spirits in easy camaraderie.

He frowned and looked to his feet. One day d'Artagnan would be a great leader of men – there was no doubt about it.

That determined, strong willed boy he met all those years ago – who stormed into the garrison and then into his heart; who absorbed every lesson he had to teach, was still there beneath the weariness of war. But now too, here before his very eyes that boy had gradually emerged to be a good and honest man – equal to his own sword, strategic mind, and sense of duty. And who now had surpassed him in all manner of ways worth note – compassion being only one of these.

There was nothing left to teach him. d'Artagnan would accomplish much, and he would be sure to see it come to pass – if not in the flesh; then in lessons remembered. He had promised to see him home again - to cleave unto his wife; and he would keep his word.

Porthos gripped his neck and pulled him briefly in. "I will join you two when I'm all packed up", he whispered; and sensing his anxiety added, "Do not worry Athos – everything will fall into place. We will rendezvous with our Army – provide support; and then home it will be."

Athos turned to his friend, and searched his eyes. "You sound confident that we will succeed."

Porthos sighed. "My confidence is in you Captain." And together they stood in companionable silence as the controlled chaos of the camp being dismantled echoed around them.

Athos reached for and gripped tightly the hand at his shoulder; and gave a brief smile. "Thank you brother", he murmured. "I'll see you soon for the meal."

Porthos nodded once; and slapped his back for good measure as they separated to ready themselves.

* * *

Athos stood quietly within his tent – after some attempt to pack up and make ready to address his men. Something in his heart felt unsettled, and his hands shook of their own accord. His stomach fluttered and he wondered at his sense of dread.

He reached for his saddle bag – pulled out his small wooden box, and sat heavily to the dirt.

Soon, Porthos and d'Artagnan would be here to share the morning meal – a ritual they had developed between themselves to be sure each of them remained hardy, in good health and good spirits.

He opened the box, thumbed solemnly through his letters to Anne and thought on her with care. To see her again was his objective – to confess his failings; and to share his need to see her content in the world was the goal.

His hand stayed above her written name, and he felt his heart skip a beat, and impulsively pulled a blank paper, his quill and vial of ink from the box.

He began to write in earnest:

 _ **Brothers,**_

 _ **If you are reading this – then I have gone on ahead and am waiting. Though I am no longer here, my essence is still with you; alongside you – as always.**_

 _ **We will see each other again, I am sure of it. But not too soon, for I wish to hear of your many adventures of love, and life. Then after hearing such wondrous tales – we will mount up and ride again.**_

 _ **Until then,**_

 _ **Athos**_

When he finished, he looked down in amazement at what he had composed. Truly these words had flowed from his heart to his hand without preamble and with abandon. He creased his letter in half, and placed Aramis', Porthos' and d'Artagnan's names in perfect script, on the empty folded space.

d'Artagnan then entered through the tent's flap, with Pothos close behind – his arms full with three plates of rabbit stew. "Breakfast is served!" he called out and smiled curiously as Athos quickly placed his letter in the wooden box, and returned it to his saddle bag.

He reached up for his plate, and exclaimed – "Then let us eat."

While he ate, Athos considered his friends, and knew that in this moment – he was happy to have this precious time with his family. To have d'Artagnan here with him now – though injured, thin and pale beneath his olive tones – he was also vibrant, alive and hopeful. The shine in his eyes looked to him with unwavering allegiance; and caused his heart to swell – overpowering his earlier apprehension.

Porthos caught his gaze over the top of their young friend's head, and together they spoke volumes in silent conformity. Their love and regard for one another summed up here between them, in this brief hour, a point in time to hold close – to not forget.

d'Artagnan sat tall then, lowered his utensil and plate to the dusty ground; and joined in their reflection. He swiped stew from the side of his mouth and extended his hand; waiting for them to connect and unify their bond.

Athos reached out and grabbed the offered life line and squeezed hard. Porthos added his weight and after a momentary pause bellowed, "Let us ready ourselves brothers."

* * *

As Athos mounted, and took his place in front of his regiment – as was his way – had no speech to give. He looked at each and every man, gave eye contact and nodded his encouragement. They nodded back in turn – ready to follow their Captain into the depths of hell if need be.

His thoughts flashed briefly of the lost two; his Anne with flowers in her hair; d'Artagnan drenched, standing ankle deep in water – holding a squirming fish above his head – Aramis' and Porthos' laughter floating above the trees; and the four of them seated around a warm fire – taking great pains to remember that glorious day – always.

When he turned to lead – his focus fell on France and he called out to his musketeers – "All for one." They all then surged forward and moved as one toward the border.

* * *

Well – this is the closing moment of this collection. I want to thank everyone who has read, reviewed and left me your kind words to ponder over. I would have never guessed at the wonderful response to these moments and am happy so many have enjoyed them. Also – thank you to those of you who have favorited; and followed. Your quiet support was much appreciated!


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